


This Dark Alley Love Song

by letters_of_stars



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Mutual Pining, Romantic Fluff, Slow Burn, but I can never let characters just be happy and in love, filling in that gap between Día de Los Muertos and the next year, it's probably a character flaw or something, ridiculous skeleton grandparents in love, without some complications
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-06-09 22:03:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 81,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15277119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letters_of_stars/pseuds/letters_of_stars
Summary: The first time Héctor left, Imelda had been sure he'd come back. The second time he leaves, she's certain he won't.With no way of knowing his picture would be placed on the ofrenda, Héctor says his goodbyes and disappears rather than burden his family as he withers away. Which is fine, Imelda tells herself. Just fine. Until somehow she finds herself at the bank of the river, staring into Shantytown, determined to find her husband and bring him home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very very excited to be finally publishing this story, and I hope there's still enough hype over the movie that someone will find this story and enjoy it~  
> It's been a while since a movie made me want to start it right up again after the credits stopped rolling, and who knew you could get so attached to a pair of skeleton grandparents? Héctor and Imelda turned out to be ridiculously fun to write.  
> I completely confess to knowing very limited Spanish, so if there are mistakes I truly apologize for that. I tried to keep my use of Spanish to the minimum to avoid the most egregious misspellings but I am sorry if I butcher your beautiful language.  
> That said, I've been waiting to share this story for months so here goes nothing!

 

**Love isn’t always magic**

**sometimes it’s just melting**

**or it’s black and blue**

**where it hurts the most**

-Andrea Gibson

 

* * *

 

 

“Just for a while,” Héctor had told her. “I’ll only be gone a short while.” 

Imelda had sighed and leaned into her husband’s touch, let his arms wrap around her and his chin rest on her shoulder. They’d had this conversation five times already, to the point she was not sure whether Héctor was trying to convince her or himself more. She’d stared at their reflection in the window, at the exhaustion worn into her own face, the agitated line of Héctor’s brow. Her fingers had played across Héctor’s, which were crossed over her stomach. 

“Just a short while, and then we’ll have much more money,” Héctor had continued, nodding a little to himself. “We can buy a big house for our family, big with gardens and fancy floors and windows, and Coco can have so many pretty dresses and dolls, and...and…” He’d sighed, and, in the reflection, Imelda had watched his eyes close. “I won’t be gone for long. Ernesto is the real performer.” 

Imelda had snorted. She couldn’t help it. “You are more of a performer than he is, mi músico.”

Héctor had pouted a little and opened his eyes to a hooded contemplation. “Well, maybe when chasing down the girl I want to marry,  sí, but Ernesto loves the performance even more than he loves the music. He can charm any audience anywhere he goes. And it took me a week just to get your name, mi amor.” He’d smiled a little and pressed a little kiss to her neck, right where he knew it made her squirm. And then, as an apology, he’d lifted his head to kiss her cheek, right near the corner of her eye. Imelda had smiled and turned in his grip, hands landing on his shoulders. 

“I like to watch you sing more than watching Ernesto. Always have.” 

“You are biased,” Héctor had replied with an impish grin, but his face had quickly resolved back into worry. He’d pulled Imelda to his chest. “Ernesto doesn’t need a partner on stage. He just needs me to help him get started, to write his songs. And then I’m sure he’ll be fine on his own, and I can come back and have all the time in the world to spend with you and Coco. Things will be so good, Imelda. I promise.” 

Things had already been so good. She hadn’t wanted anything more than what they had, could have told him that if he’d bothered to ask. But Héctor had never been satisfied with being just a street musician. Who he had been trying to prove his worth to she was not sure. To her? To her family? To Coco? Or, as she’d suspected more and more often, to himself? It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that she’d loved their little house together, that she’d liked her window boxes of flowers, and that their occasionally squeaky floors were simply an accompaniment to her dancing. It didn’t matter that Coco would toss away any fancy doll if it meant getting to sit in front of her  pápa while he sang to her. 

No, Héctor had to go make something of himself. Had to share his music with the world. And it didn’t help that Ernesto had been whispering in his ear about fame and fortune far more frequently as of late. Imelda hadn’t liked that at all. But it was alright, she had told herself. They were talented, after all, Ernesto and Héctor together. Once they got on the road, it wouldn’t take long for people to notice that talent, and the sooner Héctor could make his name and come home. And maybe then, with a little extra money in his pocket, he could stop worrying about whether or not he was giving Imelda the fine life he’d promised her along with his love, and realize she only ever needed the one. 

Imelda had held Coco in her arms to prevent the toddler from running away after her  pápa on the morning Héctor left. He’d kept turning around every five steps to either run back for one more kiss or to wave frantically while shouting endearments that were sure to wake up the whole town. Ernesto finally had to drag him away and out of sight, so that was the last time Imelda ever saw her husband alive, smiling and promising he’d be back, he’d be back soon. 

He’d be back for sure, and then he’d never leave again. 

 

* * *

 

Day broke. Miguel’s final cry of anguished protest still rang in the air after the boy had vanished. Héctor shuddered again as the golden light flickered up and down his bones, and then his hand dropped to the ground with an empty rattle, the marigold petal disappeared. Imelda was quick to snatch it back up and hold it tight as he struggled to speak. 

“Please tell Coco I love her. I love her so much.” His voice was barely audible, for no one but her. Imelda couldn’t bring herself to say he could tell her himself. It would be cruel now, to tease him with things that would never happen. Sparks played around his facial markings, but his eyes still opened blearily to seek her out. His hand twitched in hers. “And when you see Miguel again, please tell him it’s not his fault. That I’m happy I got to meet him...once…”

His eyes slid shut and his fingers went limp. His breathing turned ragged and pained, and there was nothing Imelda could do. Not a thing. 

Well, perhaps  _ one _ thing. The Riveras were a clump still hidden in the shadow of the massive theater as light crept its way across the Land of the Dead. They looked scared to approach, frightened more of the final death or of intruding on her Imelda wasn’t sure. Probably both. She waved them closer and they came shuffling across the ground, faces drawn and anxious.

Another shudder. Héctor’s mouth moved as if to speak, but no sound came out. Imelda shushed him and squeezed his hand as the other Riveras surrounded and knelt beside them. There were no words needed, not now. At least this time he could die surrounded by his family. Slowly, one by one, the twins and Julio all took off their hats in respect. Another spasm of gold, violent, making every limb flail, and this time, the light stayed. 

Rosita closed her eyes, as did Julio. Imelda could not. She didn’t dare blink. Now he would vanish once more without even a smile and a wave or a kiss for his daughter. She couldn’t bear it. How could she be expected to? She was only a woman after all, a woman watching the man she had loved slipping away through her fingers once more with no way to stop it. But she was also Mamá Imelda, matriarch of the Rivera family, and no matter what Héctor said, this was as much her fault as his. She couldn’t break now. So she simply stared. And waited.

After five minutes,  Óscar raised a hand. “Aren’t we supposed to disappear into dust by now?”

Everyone nodded a little in agreement, so she knew they’d all been thinking along the same lines, but Imelda just tightened her jaw. So Héctor was being stubborn. Of course he would hold on longer than anyone else. But soon, soon the final death would take him. 

After another five minutes and Héctor was still astonishingly present, Victoria suggested that maybe the Sunrise Spectacular crowd was getting a bit rowdy and perhaps this should be moved to a more private location. Plus, there were still Ernesto’s bodyguards to worry about. They were exposed out here, in the full sunlight. Imelda hated to admit it, but Victoria was right. They couldn’t stay here.

Felipe and  Óscar ran backstage once more to grab a large sheet of fabric. They were hesitant about touching Héctor at all, as if the golden light might be contagious, but somehow he ended up swaddled in the sheet, easy for Pepita to hold in her mouth from two trailing ends. Imelda whistled the alebrije back to her—what had she been doing anyways?—and shooed the rest of the family away to distract Ernesto’s fans or bodyguards or the police or the reporters or  _ whoever _ else was likely to try to force themselves onto the scene. Héctor glowed steadily as Imelda helped Pepita pick him up, and she walked beside her alebrije with one gentle hand on the bundle and the other clutched around the dirty straw hat she’d recovered. Would it turn to dust too, the moment Héctor left her? She’d never seen the final death in person. The only thing she knew was that  Óscar was right. This glow wasn’t normal, even for the most stubborn of souls, and she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad sign. When Héctor was settled comfortably, then maybe she would ask for a doctor. But first, a bed, and Imelda knew what the obvious solution was.

The sun rose over the Land of the Dead, and Imelda finally walked her stray husband all the way home.

 

* * *

 

It took three days before the glow of the final death faded from his bones. The twins had tried to insist she rest, but she’d snapped back at them until everyone in the Rivera house knew to leave her alone in the chair by the guest bed. She felt a little bad about that, but none of them really understood. None of them could feel the guilt festering inside her ribcage.

They’d brought in the best doctor in town. The Riveras were a very respected family, after all, and could afford the best. Not that it helped much. The doctor had never seen the final death hold on like that. She wasn’t sure if it was possible to come back after being so close to the brink. She did examine the broken rib and peered at the taped up bones in Héctor’s arm and leg. “Shoddy work,” she said. “Probably did it himself. I can take another look if he...comes back.”

Imelda hated the word ‘if’. But she paid the doctor and thanked her all the same before returning to her vigil.

She occasionally rested her arms upon the bed Héctor lay on, might have dipped her head down and gotten a few hours of sleep before the bright golden light forced her eyes open once more, but the idea of relaxing to her own room was repugnant to even consider.

Sometime during the second day, Imelda took Héctor’s hand in hers, noted the nicks and scratches, the dull yellow of the bones. Back then, in life, when the letters had stopped coming, she’d wondered if he’d merely forgotten to send them. After all, he loved her, right? And he loved Coco, more than anything in the world. Right? Even more than music? And her husband could be scatterbrained at times, so it was alright if she had to wait a few more months. 

But then months had turned into a year and could Héctor really be that scatterbrained? He’d always been the one trying to prove he was worthy of her—ridiculous man—but her thoughts had turned to pretty young girls with flowers in their hair and perhaps a more welcoming disposition than her own, hearts that would take minutes not months to woo. Far from home, would the warmth of another woman’s arms be a tempting thing? 

Battered as he was, and even accounting for the golden light that probably took some years off, once Imelda actually studied the color of his hair, the still-so-skinny frame, it was impossible to believe the man died any older than thirty. In fact, he looked exactly how she remembered him as he left, albeit a skeleton now dressed in rags. Just when had Ernesto killed him? Neither Héctor or Miguel had had the time to tell her. 

What if he was buried and forgotten while she wondered at his faithfulness? 

What if he was already dead on the day she heard singing from the square, a happy upbeat song?

 

_ Remember me, though I have to say goodbye,  _

_ Remember me, don’t let it make you cry… _

 

Imelda had nearly dropped her basket of groceries, bought with the last of the money Héctor had sent them. Coco’s song. How could these people know Coco’s song? 

She had waited until the song had stopped before approaching the man with the guitar and plucking at his sleeve. “Sorry, what was that song?” 

“Ay, it’s Ernesto de la Cruz’s latest hit!” the guitarist had boasted. “That man is the greatest musician that...señorita?” 

She’d already been running home, fast as her feet could carry her. She had rushed into the kitchen and slammed the door shut behind her and then leaned against it as if to hold off the entire world. Ernesto singing Coco’s song? How could—? Why would—? The basket of groceries had gone spilling to the floor as Imelda covered her face with her hands. Héctor had given away Coco’s song, the soft lullaby that the child still sang to herself every night, praying for her  pápa to come home the next day. And in place of a lullaby was that awful garrish melody of Ernesto’s, and...and…

Imelda had slowly slid down the door, sobs that she’d held in for months wracking her shoulders and making her lungs ache. Héctor was never coming home, was he? He was long gone with some pretty girl on his shoulder, giving away the most precious memory his daughter had for the sake of a taste of fame. He was probably drinking with Ernesto now, without a single care for her. Without a single care for Coco. How the thought had made her heart wrench. Her husband—the boy who’d serenaded her for months for simply a smile, who wrote songs about the color of her eyes and sheen of her hair, who held her close and swayed gently to a melody only he could hear, who braided Coco’s hair each and every morning and then swooped her up into the air so she would giggle and call out for more…

That man was gone. Maybe he’d never even really existed, just a play-act for fun until he could run off and make love to music instead. 

Imelda had stayed hunched on the floor with face buried in her knees for several long moments, trying to regulate her breathing. Then she’d gotten up and picked up the tomatoes she’d dropped. Well, if Héctor wanted to forget her, she could forget him just a well. She didn’t need him, and she didn’t need anyone’s pity either. There were plenty of things she could do to earn money and raise Coco on her own. She hadn’t known quite what yet, but with fury giving her strength, there didn’t seem to be much she couldn’t do. 

She’d glanced at the family picture on the kitchen table, there for so long so she and Coco could pretend they were having meals with Héctor. No, no more useless wishing. Imelda had stolen the picture from its frame and carefully torn out Héctor’s face, trying not to look too closely at the gentle smile she had fell for, the eyes that she loved. She’d folded the photo so that damned guitar was out of sight, and returned the photo back to the frame, much too wide for it now. She’d go ask for a smaller frame tomorrow. 

She had considered burning the small fragment of the photo left in her hands, but settled for dropping it in the trash instead, along with the potato skins from last night’s dinner. Garbage belonged with garbage, after all. 

And there must be no more music, she’d decided then. Not only because musicians were lying, thieving, heartbreaking liars, no, not just that. 

But because Imelda wouldn’t be able to bear it if Coco knew the song she loved so much had been turned into a bawdy jingle. So Coco mustn’t ever,  _ ever _ hear it played.

 

* * *

 

But that hadn’t been it, had it? Back in the now, Imelda brought Héctor’s hand to her lips. She’d always loved his hands, the permanent calluses that had accompanied his incessant playing, a little bit rough against her own soft skin. Of course, neither his calluses or her skin existed anymore, but these were the same musician’s hands that had stroked her face and fiddled with the ribbons in her hair. 

He’d wanted to come  _ home _ . She hadn’t been replaced by a pretty girl, and Coco’s song had been stolen, not sold for fame. He’d never forgotten them, ever, and yet she...she…

Well, Imelda couldn’t be entirely angry with herself. She’s always prided herself on being a rational women, and there was absolutely no rationality to the idea Ernesto would kill Héctor for his songs. Those two had been thick as thieves, long before she met either of them. Always playing together and sharing grandiose dreams. Maybe sometimes Ernesto had looked at Imelda in a way that seemed almost like jealousy; she remembered the wedding where Ernesto had laughingly accused Imelda of stealing Héctor from him, but everyone had laughed because it was a joke, of course it was only a joke. The idea that Héctor had run off with Ernesto to play for the world seemed much more likely than anything else. Because surely if something had happened to Héctor, Ernesto knew her address. He would have told her if Héctor was injured or sick or hit by a runaway cart. Or so she’d thought. So no, Imelda would not say her assumptions and anger were in any way unwarranted, if perhaps misplaced. 

Still, it was because she had tried to erase Héctor from memory that he was lying there now, barely clinging to the afterlife. It was her fault, no matter how justified her actions may have seemed back then and even now. If Héctor died, it would not be because Miguel failed. It would be because of her.

Imelda squeezed Héctor’s hand a little tighter and sighed. The letters had stopped coming after five months, maybe? If she assumed the worst then it had been five months, and Héctor had tried to come home. He hadn’t gained fame or fortune, he hadn’t made her family approve of the marriage, and he hadn’t earned the money for a fancy house and pretty dresses for Coco. But he’d tried to come home anyway. And he hadn’t stopped trying in death either. But he never could succeed, with no photo on the ofrenda, because Imelda had ripped him away. 

How many years had he kept his photo safe, all in the hope he might someday cross the marigold bridge? All in the hope he might someday return home? That was what he wanted, after all, what Ernesto had killed him for, the simple desire to come home, and Imelda had gone and—

Imelda had long ago promised herself she would shed no more tears over her useless husband. And true to her word, she never would. Skeletons could not shed tears. Yet, almost a century later, she clutched his hand to her cheek and hid her trembling lips in the fabric of her skirts as she prayed for her useless husband to wake up. 

 

* * *

 

On the third day, around noon, the glow faded, for no real reason she could decipher. But surely it had to be a good sign, right? Imelda smoothed her hair back into place, sorted her skirts and apron, and tried to look like she had not been sitting at Héctor’s side the entire time he’d been unconscious. She called for Rosita to bring her some embroidery, and sat by the bed reminding herself with every clink of needle against bone that she didn’t have to press as hard through fabric as through leather. Embroidery had never been her strong suit. Her mamá had scolded her for it plenty of times, but Imelda had always preferred to sing. She felt Héctor’s eyes on her long before she looked up, but he didn’t seem to feel like speaking, so eventually she forced her gaze up to meet his. Even with the golden light disappeared, Héctor looked so beaten down, so exhausted in a way she didn’t know a skeleton could look before now. She could barely feel relieved to see the glow gone with him in that condition. He watched her with half-open eyes, confusion clouding his features. 

“Imelda?” he croaked. 

Imelda set aside the embroidery with no small relief and crossed her hands in her lap. “How do you feel?” 

Héctor smiled a little and simply answered, “You still sing so beautifully.” 

If she still had blood, it would have rushed to her face. Imelda coughed and reached out to fiddle with the bandage keeping Héctor’s arm together. That needed to be looked at. “It seems Miguel was able to get Coco to remember you in time,” she told him. “You’ve been unconscious for a while, but it appears you’re alright. The final death didn’t want you, in the end.”

Héctor’s smile grew a little, but then he closed his eyes once more and his ribcage began to move with steady rhythm. Asleep again. Well, that was understandable. At least now that the threat of his imminent disappearance was gone, Imelda could get a little rest herself. She stood from her chair and exited the room as quietly as she could. Rosita was, of course, still just outside the room, but it didn’t take long for everyone else to melt out of the woodwork, the question obvious on all their lips. 

“He’s not going to die,” Imelda said before they could even ask. “He’s sleeping now. If one of you could…” She paused, unsure of what orders needed to be given. 

Victoria, bless her, knew to take over. “Rosita, you go buy some food for when he wakes up. Something nourishing, the man nearly died, after all. Tío Felipe, you can take first watch…”

Imelda was too weary to bother making sure the instructions were all to her satisfaction. Victoria was dependable. And as long as she knew someone was watching over Héctor, she could relieve a little of her exhaustion and guilt. She reached for  Óscar ’s shoulder. “Please come get me when he wakes up again,” she whispered to her brother and he nodded before patting her hand reassuringly. 

“It’ll be alright, Imelda,” he told her, and she forced a smile before heading upstairs to her room. If she could just keep smiling until she was out of sight, then maybe she could pretend she didn’t feel as completely lost as she truly was.

 

* * *

 

Before Miguel had arrived, Imelda knew her place in the afterlife. And suddenly, with her husband in the guest bedroom, everything had changed. Was she still angry with Héctor? Yes, of course. Was she angry with herself? Even more so. Did she want to find Ernesto and play bowling with his ribs for pins and inflated head for a ball? Yes, that more than anything. Except for the confusion. All the anger she had inside her was dwarfed by the confusion of what she should do next, what she even  _ wanted _ to do next. 

“Imelda.” The call at the door with a gentle knock was followed quickly by her twin brothers both poking their heads into her bedroom. Imelda glanced up from where she had her face buried in a pillow on the bed. Anyone else and she would be mortified to be seen so weak. But her brothers were a different story. They knew her. They knew Héctor. They’d been there in the square the first time a young musician started wooing her with his guitar, and they’d teased her the whole time when she and Héctor were courting. They’d been there when Héctor’s letters stopped and helped her with the heavy lifting to turn her home into a shoe shop. They’d watched Coco on the nights Imelda was peddling wares in other cities and couldn’t get there in time for bed. 

“Imelda,”  Óscar murmured, and walked to the side of the bed. A hand rested on her back. “Héctor is awake.” Felipe wasn’t far behind, taking her hand where it was clutched around the bedspread. “He asked for you.” 

Imelda let Felipe release her deathgrip on the bedspread and help her upright. “Are you alright?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”  Óscar continued. 

Imelda patted her hair back into place and shook her head. “I’m fine.” 

Her brothers glanced at each other and shrugged before turning back to the door. Imelda stood from her bed and checked the mirror to make sure she looked presentable. She ran a finger down the strands of white in her hair and sighed. Unlike Héctor, she was undeniably aged, a fact which bothered her for the first time since arriving in the Land of the Dead. Now perhaps she could understand him wanting to run off with a pretty young girl with flowers in her hair and an easily melted heart. Especially after Imelda had scorned him all these years.

But no, no, there was no use thinking about silly things like that now. She was not looking to renew a romance, simply to see if the man she had married would survive, that he was being properly remembered once more. And then—

She didn’t know what then, actually. She could do nothing but carry on and pretend to be confident. Mamá Imelda had to know what to do, or she wasn’t Mamá Imelda. 

Rosita was sitting in the chair by the bed when Imelda walked through the door, and she almost tripped over her skirts in her rush to stand up. Imelda placed a reassuring hand on her head and then gazed over at the bed. Héctor had been propped upright with the use of several pillows and had a mug of something steaming hot raised to his mouth. His hair was sleep mussed and he still looked exhausted. “Gracias, Rosita, I have it from here,” Imelda assured her with a gentle smile, and then sat in the chair Rosita had so recently abandoned. Héctor blinked and slowly lowered the mug as the door clicked shut once more. Imelda felt her arms going into their automatic cross and fought to keep them loose at her sides. 

“You seem better,” she said at last, and he nodded very enthusiastically. 

“ Sí ,  sí , your family is very good to me, gracias. Eh…” His fingers tapped a little rhythm against the mug. “I’m sorry.” 

“Sorry for what?” 

He shrugged and glanced away. “I—I suppose for everything. For leaving and for dying and for...for Ernesto.” His tapping fingers died away and his whole body seemed to collapse just a little bit more onto itself. “And—and for everything after that. For Miguel, though I swear!” His eyes flew to her, pleading. “I  _ promise _ I did not know he was your...our... _ your _ great-great-grandson.” His brow furrowed and he nibbled at his bottom lip as his eyes were drawn back away, dazed, into the steaming contents of the mug. “I didn’t mean to keep him away from you, he didn’t ever mention you, I thought I could try to help him. And then he would help me.” The tapping started up again, but nervous this time, with no melody to it. “Miguel almost died because of me trying to get that stupid photo. The picture doesn’t matter anymore, it doesn’t. I don’t care if I never cross the marigold bridge, as long as Miguel got home safe.” He blinked again and startled, the emptiness gone from his eyes only to be replaced with an emotion she didn’t recognize. “I guess Coco does remember me, doesn’t she?” 

Imelda nodded. 

He laughed a fake little laugh and clutched the mug tighter. “Ah, well that’s good. That’s good. I have a little more time, at least. Enough to put my affairs in order, pay off some debts. Return some costumes.” He laughed again, in that way he probably always thought used to fool her but never did. Anyone else, maybe, but never her. “So I will finish this wonderful cider, and be out of your hair.” He began to swing his legs out of the bed before he even finished talking and Imelda pitched forward, throwing out her hands in protest. She felt ridiculous the moment she realized she’d done it, but Héctor immediately froze in place. “I’m sorry, is there something else I should apologize for?” 

“You aren’t well yet,” she snapped, arms retreating into crossed position despite herself. “Look at you, you’re a mess! It’s a wonder you can even walk on that leg!” 

Héctor stared at the bandaged leg in question and wiggled it a little. “I walk just fine. This broke years ago. I fell off the trolley. Thirty-two years ago.” 

“Mhm, and the arm?” 

“Mishap during a...er...on  Día de Los Muertos , twelve years ago. We’ll say it was an automobile accident.” He grinned at her, that winning smile with a glint of a gold tooth, and Imelda pressed a hand over her eyes. Why was she even having this conversation? 

Very slowly, Héctor’s bare feet touched upon the floor with small clicking noises. Be out of her hair, that was it? Imelda breathed in deeply and let loose the question.

“So you just want to leave again, is that it?” 

It took Héctor a very long time to reply. She didn’t dare look back at him when he began to answer. “No, that’s not it. Walking away from you again is the last thing I want to do, Imelda.” He paused and she heard him suck in breath to steady himself. “But I am not an invalid and your family should not be forced to care for me, and I do not want my health to pressure you into accepting me into your house when you aren’t ready for it.” 

Imelda slid her hand down her face and studied Héctor’s sincere expression—the sadness written into his eyes, the resignation in the line of his mouth. This was the man she had turned away again and again, and it seemed he finally understood. She wanted nothing to do with him. 

Or at least, not until three nights ago, when she thought she might lose him forever.

But how much could really change in a single night? Yes, she might know the truth about Héctor’s death now, but he still made the decision to leave in the first place. He’d promised things would be better, and then he left her alone with the tune of Ernesto’s stolen songs ringing in her ears. So many years of being bitter about it in both life and death couldn’t be erased by a few wild hours and a song. Just because she didn’t want Héctor to die didn’t mean she wanted him back in her afterlife again. Right? 

Right.

But how  _ good _ it had felt to dance again, to sing, to hear the thrum of his guitar offstage, playing havoc with a heart she no longer possessed. How sweet it had been, for those few moments, to feel like nothing had changed. She could close her eyes now and remember the boy who had written love songs in her name and sang them quietly as they sat by the river, the man who had played for her pregnant belly every night so their child would love music as much as they did. Who kissed her all over her face until she was forced to laugh, who danced with her across the creaking floorboards of their house until they were breathless from exertion. She’d spent three days agonizing over things said and not said, things done and not done, and just when she had him back, he chose the time to be  _ considerate _ and leave of his own accord.

“I meant it,” she whispered before her pride could swallow the words back down, and leaned forward to flick some dust from his shoulder and straighten that ratty bandana. “What I said.” 

“You’ve said a lot of things, Imelda. You will have to remind me what this thing is,” he chided her gently, and she moved on to trying to fix the jacket, though at this point incineration would be an improvement. His hands slowly closed over hers to stop her fidgeting. 

_ That you were the love of my life. _

But that would be a foolish thing to say. “That you’re reckless,” she answered instead, and shooed him back onto the pillows. “And foolish. You need some rest. At least have a meal, after we bothered to take you in like this. Finish your drink.” 

Héctor smiled a little into his mug as he obeyed. She wasn’t sure what was so funny. She sat back in the chair and smoothed her skirts. There were so many questions she had for him. So much she didn’t know about his life now, his death, his afterlife. 

“How long have you known?” she asked at last, eyes trained to watch his expression. “About Ernesto?” 

Héctor lowered the mug once more, empty. Imelda reached over to take it from his hand and place it on the floor. “How long have I been asleep?” 

“Three days.”

“Then three days and a few hours.” His shoulders slumped and he looked towards the window instead of back to her. “Though I should have realized sooner. But I’m foolish, like you say.” His fingers laced across his lap. “I should have known something was wrong when I first tried to approach Ernesto, after he died. I thought...I thought…” He sighed. “He turned me away. Again and again until I stopped trying. Like you, actually.” His eyes shifted back to her and Imelda very carefully didn’t react. She held herself stiff as he went back to watching the window. “I wouldn’t have found out at all if Miguel hadn’t figured it out himself. He’s a good boy. You should be proud. But I never knew before now.” 

Imelda narrowed her eyes a little. What version of her husband was this, sighing wistfully at the window over his own mistakes? The one she’d married had made mistakes in the most exuberant manner possible, the embodiment of asking for forgiveness instead of permission.

“You never chose to see the bad in people,” Imelda told him primly, and pulled her chair closer to the bed so she could grab his arm and inspect the bandages once more, steal his attention from the window. “Now let me see this.” 

Héctor was silent as she unwrapped the dirty bandages to reveal the bone, splintered in two. “An automobile accident?” she asked, one brow raised, which prompted a slight smile.

“I may have been in one or two.” 

Imelda glared at him, knowing full well it lacked her usual conviction. “Well, I’ll rewrap it in something clean for now, but tomorrow we can get the doctor down and—” 

“No point.” He pulled his arm back from her, cradling the broken section carefully in his hand. “Coco is an old woman now,  sí ?” 

Imelda wanted to snatch the arm back, but she couldn’t without potentially making the break worse. She settled for sitting back with arms crossed. “She is old,  that’s true , but what that has to do with your arm—”

“Imelda,” Héctor said gently, and sat a little straighter up on the pillows. “Coco may have remembered me for now, but it’s still over when she dies. There’s no one in the living world to share my memory.” 

“But Miguel—!”

Héctor stayed her motion with his free hand. “Miguel only knew me in my death. It’s the memories of our lives that sustain us. Those and our pictures on the ofrenda, which I don’t have. Unless there is someone who tells the stories of my life, I will disappear when Coco dies. And Coco was so close to forgetting me altogether...I don’t think she’ll be able to share those stories.” He smiled at her, pained but resigned. “I think I know a little more of how the final death works than you do. And it’s alright.” 

Imelda’s hands curled into fists. “So if we had managed to save your picture…”

“Can I get some tape or a bandage here?” Héctor asked, gesturing to his arm. “I’d like to piece myself together again.” 

She huffed at his dismissive tone and stood up, chair squeaking backwards. “Fine. I will find something.” 

She made it out into the hallway before stomping her foot down hard. The damn photo! After everything they’d gone through, Héctor would still disappear before he could see Coco again because of a damned photo! She stomped again, just to get some more frustration out. Maybe there was a way, maybe they could still find it. Maybe it hadn’t been lost forever. But what good would it do, just to have the picture in her hands? Maybe Miguel—reckless, stubborn boy, so like his great-great grandfather—would come back, would choose to curse himself again next  Día de Los Muertos , could take the photo back with him…

Imelda stopped stamping her foot and buried her head in her hands. No, it was pointless. Miguel belonged in the land of the living, and from what Imelda could guess, Coco probably didn’t even have another year left in her. Héctor would suffer the final death and there was nothing Imelda could do to stop it. 

She lifted her face from her hands just in time to see Julio darting back around a vase. “Julio!”

Her son-in-law poked his head out from behind the vase. “ Sí , Mamá Imelda?” 

Imelda paused. She didn’t know what orders to give now. She snapped her fingers a few times to try to get herself together again. “I need bandages. Strong ones. And ask Rosita to prepare a meal for Héctor.” 

Julio’s hands fiddled with the brim of his hat. He’d always been such a timid one, a good match for headstrong Coco. “S í , Mamá Imelda.” 

Imelda watched him scamper off, smoothed her hair back, and opened the doors into the guest bedroom once more. Héctor was looking out the window again, but he turned his head to watch her while she approached the chair. At the last moment she frowned a little and perched on the end of the bed instead. “So you’ll just wait for your final death, then?” 

Héctor shrugged. “Nothing much more I can do.” 

“And you’ll just leave again?” Her hands clenched in her skirts. 

Héctor leaned forward and grinned a little, provocative. “Are you asking me to stay?” 

“I—”

Julio knocked on the door to announce his presence. He approached Imelda with one eye on Héctor at all times and handed her a roll of bandages. “Gracias,” she told him, and he took the chance to escape, shutting the door and leaving Imelda and Héctor alone again. Imelda unrolled some of the bandage and ripped away what seemed like the proper amount. “Show me your arm.” Héctor hesitantly held up the broken arm and she scooted higher up the bed to do her work properly. She held the bone carefully and began to loop the bandage around to hold the pieces slotted together. What her husband could use, she decided, was a good scrubbing. Sure, being forgotten led to a skeleton fading and yellowing and weakening over time, but most of this was probably just dirt. She would bring it up later. “I’ll do your leg next,” she told him, and proceeded to wrap the bandage around his arm snug and secure. 

“Gracias,” Héctor said quietly, and watched her work for a long moment of silence. As she was finishing tying her work off, he used the hand at the end of that arm to pluck at her sleeve. “Imelda, I am not asking for you to accept me back. There have been too many years, and so much has happened.  _ We’ve _ both changed.” 

Imelda’s hand immediately went to the white streak in her hair and Héctor chuckled a little while she cursed herself internally for being so easy to read. 

“Not the way I was thinking about. Though white was always your color.” The smile drained from his face. “Imelda, even if we did decide to...to…” He spread his arms helplessly. “Even if we decided to be  _ us _ again, I don’t have time.” His arms dropped to the bedspread as though weighted, and he refused to look her way. His voice, when he spoke, was choked and rasping, as if he were seconds from crying. “It was selfish of me to leave the first time. Let me be selfish again.”

She blinked and took a moment to process what all he was asking. Oh. She played with the bandages in her hands, studied her shoes, clicked the heels together neatly. “You really do want to leave,” she said, and looked up at him once more. “Even if I asked you to stay?”

He lifted his face and stared blankly at her for a few seconds and then brought a hand up to cover his eyes, fingers trembling slightly. He shook his head. “I don’t want your last memories of me to be while I disappear. I selfishly, selfishly ask that you remember me as I lived.” He lowered his hand, sought out her eyes with an expression of utter vulnerability. “Please, Imelda. If you ever loved me, give me this. And if you feel like it, say hello to Coco and Miguel for me.” 

Imelda sucked in a long breath she didn’t need and looked away, down down down his long limbs to the break in his leg. “That  _ is _ selfish of you,” she agreed, and moved down the bed to take care of that injury as well. 

“I know.”

“At least you wanted to buy us a better life by being a musician.” 

“Aye, Imelda, but I could have just done what you did. Rolled up my sleeves and worked hard to make you and Coco happy. Chasing down music with Ernesto was selfish, and asking to walk away now is selfish, but it’s what I’m asking.” 

Imelda tried to keep her touch gentle as she studied the broken leg bone and set about wrapping it. He’d always had a gangly gait, and he’d need the support for it. “I thought that  _ you  _ might ask to stay,” she replied, voice soft so he wouldn’t hear the emotion behind it. “Isn’t that what you wanted? To come home?” 

Héctor’s leg jerked a little when she wrapped the bandage tight, and he would have drawn it out of her reach if not for her immediate steadying hand on his kneecap. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and looked up at him. “I’ll be more careful.” 

Héctor stared back at her, mouth drawn thin, and finally sighed and relaxed his leg once more. Neither of them spoke while Imelda finished bandaging the broken bone. Finally, Héctor gestured with one arm around the room. “This isn’t my home, Imelda. My home is across the marigold bridge in Santa Cecilia, and I will never see it again. You don’t...you don’t…” He trailed off. 

Imelda frowned and put the roll of bandages into her apron pocket. “I don’t what?  _ This _ is where your family is, Héctor. What more do you need to make it a home?” 

He shook his head obstinately. “I don’t know this family. And what they know of me are the stories of a father who ran out on his wife and daughter. The stories you told them. If family is home, then I belong out on the water with the other forgotten.” 

Imelda stood and placed her hands on her hips, eyeing him up and down. “They are my brothers, who you already know. And your son-in-law and his sister. And your grandchild. You don’t want to get to know your own grandchild?” 

He scowled back and swung his legs off the bed. The broken leg wobbled for a second and Imelda feared it would snap out of its binding, but Héctor didn’t even pause. “ _ You  _ didn’t want me to get to know my own grandchild before three days ago! What do you want from me now?”

She didn’t know. 

“Imelda.” His voice dropped low, and he hung his head, so worn down, so fragile looking. “Please. If things were different, then I would have loved to get to know my son-in-law, and my grandchild, and everyone else. But I don’t have much time left, and I do not want to exist in your home as a charity project that everyone thinks they must be kind to simply because I will die soon.” He grabbed for one arm with the other, barring across his chest. “And the final death will be hard enough knowing I will never see Coco or Miguel or you again. It’s easier the less people I have to lose.” 

“Héctor…” But she couldn’t find the words to dissuade him. She’d never given much thought to the final death at all, except that she hoped it was a long way off for her and her loved ones. But that wasn’t Héctor’s life, was it? He’d been surviving off of Coco’s frayed memories for so long— the idea of death must have always been in the back of his mind. And three nights ago, it had nearly claimed him. 

Did she, so fervently remembered, have the right to tell one of the forgotten how they should spend their final days? Even if it was her fool of a husband? 

“At least stay for a meal,” she said, and turned away from him. “We bought food specially for you and I would hate for it to go to waste.” Maybe while he ate she’d be able to come up with an argument against his leaving. Not that he should stay. Not that she wanted him to stay. 

She just—

She simply—

She marched to the door and yanked it open, felt comfort in the stern click of her shoes across the floor. Shoes. Shoes she knew. 

Her own desires? Not so much. 

Why was it she had flung herself so recklessly into Héctor’s arms after escaping the stage of the Sunrise Spectacular? Because he had looked at her like she was all the stars and planets in the sky combined. Because his playing effortlessly evolved to fit her tempo, her dance, her voice. Because she looked back at him and saw the seventeen-year-old boy who had first started to serenade her in the streets, on her front step, by the riverbank, anywhere he could just to see her smile. Because the feeling that had blossomed in her empty chest cavity was just as strong as it had ever been in life. 

She’d meant it.

But after so many years of pushing him away, she would be the selfish one, finally inviting him back when he wanted to leave. 

And maybe this would be easiest afterall. With Héctor gone, she could go about forgetting him again. Maybe when Coco died and took her place in the guest bedroom, Imelda wouldn’t even care that it surely meant her husband had finally moved on. That’s what she’d told herself for years, decades even. That she wouldn’t care. And yet she’d so quickly agreed to Miguel’s plans, fought so hard to keep that picture safe in her hands, all for nothing. Why was she even trying to pretend now that she hadn’t cared? She’d always cared. She’d just gotten better at fooling others into believing she didn’t. 

Her footsteps stopped, and Imelda turned into the wall, pressed her forehead against the stucco surface and tried to pull herself together. She wouldn’t ask Héctor to stay. She had no right. This was what she deserved, for ignoring his every attempt to contact her, to explain himself. He had tried time and time again to put them back together, and she’d denied him. And she’d denied him the ability to go home as well, to see Coco, to be remembered. If he wanted to go die alone, to exert some control over his final few months, to be remembered with at least some dignity, she needed to accept that. Let the rest of the family remember him through the stories she would now tell, through the famous songs they now all knew he’d written. Perhaps it was time to actually listen to them. Imelda nodded to herself and straightened up. Yes, that would be best for everyone. 

_ Woe is me, weeping lady… _

No, it was ridiculous to get upset now. Imelda huffed and went off to find where her family was hiding. She needed help in the kitchen.

 

* * *

 

Imelda sat in the chair beside the bed with a cup of tea while Héctor ate. He ate very carefully, slowly, and very different from the zeal he’d had for food in life. When they were first married and living on their own, cooking was a shared learning experience. Héctor’s jobs had such odd hours when he wasn’t spending the day playing at the plaza, so it was common for him to be home when it was time to prepare meals, and he seemed to enjoy it far more than Imelda did. Especially after Coco was born. She’d been an easy girl, never fussy, but the care with which Héctor had prepared her food would have satisfied the pickiest of babies. It was something Imelda had tried to copy after he left, the gentle humming as she chopped up vegetables, the quick beat across the kitchen to check the stove. “Your  pápa is going to be so proud! Look how big you are getting! Now eat your carrots!” 

Now, Héctor was picking through his soup like Coco on her most stubborn days. 

“It’s not poisoned,” Imelda told him with a little roll of her eyes before remembering that was a very, very poor choice of words. 

Héctor did smile at it, though. “Maybe, but I need to be careful, no?” He made more of a show of inspecting each floating piece of potato after that, which Imelda very carefully did not react to. “I was poisoned by my best friend, after all, I should be more suspicious. Julio looks like a shady character, marrying my Coco like that without my permission. He certainly needs me out of the way…”

“Julio is a good boy,” Imelda snapped back, and Héctor grinned even harder and even dared a wink. 

“Oh, but my beautiful wife, her scowl alone was not enough to kill me so she added a little something extra to the bread.” He lifted the bread off the tray, saluted with it, and then took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “It’s still good though.” 

Imelda rolled her eyes again and focused on her tea. 

It felt like hours before Héctor finally finished eating, but to his credit, he ate everything. Imelda reached over to make room for her teacup as well before taking the tray from his lap. She wasn’t expecting a hand to grasp at her skirt. She turned back to Héctor with a quisitive brow. He smiled at her, smaller and sweeter than his earlier joking. “Gracias, Imelda.” 

She blinked and then looked away. She wasn’t used to the affection in his eyes anymore. “It was only soup.”

He tipped his head to the side. “I wasn’t talking about the soup.” 

She wanted to fiddle with her hair, smooth her skirts, but both hands were occupied holding the tray and her eyes were drawn back to his. “What are you talking about, then?” 

“I got to hear you sing again,” he replied, and the smile widened. “I didn’t think I would ever get that.” 

“Oh. Well…” How was she supposed to react to that? “I’m sorry we didn’t get your picture, Héctor.”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s alright. I never really believed I’d get to go back anyway. So to hear you sing, see you smile, eat your bread…” His voice trailed off and he let go of her skirts to fiddle with his hands in his lap. “It was more than I would dare ask for,” he finished at last, and ducked his head. 

Imelda stood frozen in place for a few seconds, and then set the tray back on the bed. She reached for his hands and enveloped them in her own, those musician hands she’d loved. “I am glad too. To know you always wanted to come home. I’m sorry that I—”

He shushed her, and leaned forward on the bed. For a moment Imelda thought he was going for a kiss and panicked, but instead he gently rested their foreheads together, jarringly intimate after so many years apart. “You have nothing to apologize for, Imelda. Nothing.” 

_ Please stay. _

No, she could’t ask that. Imelda frowned and drew her face away. Héctor looked up with those woeful eyes of his and she relented, raised one of his hands and gently kissed the back of it. “Rest,” she ordered, and stood up, taking the tray with her to the door. Héctor was staring at his hand like she’d performed some sort of miracle, and Imelda smiled secretly to herself before going to return the tray to the kitchen. 

Victoria was there, cleaning dishes. She perked up a little at the sound of footsteps and turned from the sink. “Abuelita. How is he?” 

Of course the child would be interested in her own grandfather. Imelda set the tray down on the counter and grasped Victoria by the shoulders. “He is well. But he will not be staying.” 

“Oh.” Victoria fidgeted with her cleaning cloth. “I thought...I’m sorry…” 

“What is it?” Imelda smoothed away a wrinkle in Victoria’s sleeve. 

Victoria shook her head a little and laughed as she pushed her glasses back into place. “I suppose I thought you two might make up. But that’s silly, isn’t it?” 

What could Imelda tell her? That Héctor wanted to leave before he died? That he didn’t want to meet his family so there was less to lose in the end? That he was running out on them again, except this time it was his own choice to never return? 

She’d been too cruel to his memory in life to do it again. “A few days is not enough to mend something that has been broken for nearly a hundred years, mija.” 

Victoria frowned a little and nodded very slowly. “Yes. Of course.” She stepped out of Imelda’s grasp and continued with the dishes. Imelda watched her work for a moment, wondering if she should change her answer. But no. It was no use now. In coming years, she would tell Victoria the stories of her grandfather in life, let her know Héctor in that way. It wouldn’t be good, but it would have to be good enough. 

Imelda could feel the breeze on her bones the moment she returned to the guest bedroom and was entirely unsurprised to find the window open and her husband long gone, hat and all, leaving only a slight impression on the bedspread to remember him by.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out you guys are probably...the nicest readers I've ever had. Thank you so so much to everyone who left kudos, subscribed, or commented. It was so nice reading your words and I really really truly appreciate it!   
> I hope you enjoy chapter 2 as well!

A month passed. The afterlife went by like normal. 

_ Woe is me, weeping lady _ . 

Perhaps not entirely normal. Ernesto de la Cruz had been revealed as a murderer. Yes, of course there were murderers in the Land of the Dead, but for a famous musician to be exposed as one in front of a stadium packed with fans on the most important night of the year? Unprecedented. 

There were those who denied it, of course. He couldn’t have done such thing, not de la Cruz, certainly! He’d been set up! The fact that Ernesto had gone on the run shook the foundations of that argument a little bit, but there were always fools. And, unfortunately, the Riveras and Pepita were well known and easily recognizable. Pepita herself did the best job of keeping the house safe from reporters and angry fans and people desperately seeking the true talent behind de la Cruz’s songs. But if Pepita was busy guarding the house, she was unable to accompany the family on their outings. After a week, it became clear that Imelda was the only one who could walk the city streets without being accosted by the crowd, and that was only because she walked with her shoe in hand and anybody who might not have known about her accuracy with it had found out in a very brief and painful lesson. 

The trouble was when the authorities came asking questions. She couldn’t just beat them with her shoe, no matter how much she might have wanted to. Was the man alluded to in the (now infamous) recording really Héctor Rivera, who witnesses had seen with her family multiple times that night, as well as with the living boy? Were they really his songs? Did she know where Héctor was? Had he succumbed to the final death? Did she know where Ernesto may have gone? 

She had to give up some of the information, albeit grudgingly. Yes, it was Héctor Rivera. He had been de la Cruz’s partner, so yes, they were his stolen songs. No, she didn’t know where he had gone, him or Ernesto, though if Ernesto approached her, she warned them, she would probably crush his skull, so they should probably catch him first. 

Could Héctor be gone? Yes, yes, it was likely. She nearly lied and said he’d disappeared for good that night, just so they would stop searching, but Héctor had gotten more wily, more wild in the time since his death, and she highly doubted he would be found before he really did die, not if he didn’t want to be.

Okay, so perhaps nothing was normal at all. At least her family seemed to be able to forget the controversies and prying eyes when they were in the workshop or the kitchen, doing normal Rivera things. It was part of why Imelda had started the shoe shop anew when she woke up dead, why she encouraged each relative as they joined her to rekindle the business. Shoes had a way of keeping things together. Her family was practically under house arrest, due to their less accurate aim, but they didn’t complain and Imelda didn’t mind being the one to go do errands. Ironically, her mind couldn’t stay on her work anyway these days. No, her mind always had to swing back to Héctor. 

Maybe it was the songs. For the first time, Imelda borrowed a phonograph and allowed herself and her family to listen to records of Ernesto’s music. She recognized the lyrics the moment the songs began. She’d read them aloud to Coco when her  pápa sent them letters home. She’d heard Coco singing them disjointedly to herself while she danced along on top of her bed. She would fall into the pillows, giggling and wondering when her  pápa would be back, while Imelda had slumped against the wall just outside the room, wondering how to tell her daughter that her  pápa wasn’t coming, that she needed to stop singing. That it wasn’t allowed anymore.  The memories swirled nauseatingly inside her while the rest of her family tapped their feet to the rhythm and sang along to the choruses. However, the moment ‘Remember Me’ began to play, she was across the room at the phonograph, practically breaking it in her need to prevent the song from continuing. She stood there, chest heaving, while her family stared. She couldn’t do it. Not this song. Not this song that had been created for Coco and Coco alone, the full force of Héctor’s love compacted into sweet guitar chords and simple lyrics a young child could understand. The fact that Ernesto had turned it into a quick-paced flirtation with a full accompaniment made Imelda’s non-existent blood boil, even as she left the room to go stalk about in the isolation of the kitchen. But those were definitely Héctor’s songs. She could hear him even through Ernesto’s voice. She rested against the counter and wrapped her arms about herself as, faintly, she heard another song start up, and the memories were not of Coco’s singing or of letters sent from all over the country. No, these memories were of Héctor sitting up on the roof, testing chords and singing phrases when they came to him. She could vividly recall a day when he’d slid off the roof at one point while she was drying laundry, twirling in place with his guitar and strumming along as he sang. 

_ “You make me un poco loco _ …”

Imelda had snuck up on him from behind a suspended sheet and grabbed him by the suspenders, kissed him to shut him up before the neighbors complained again, but they’d both been laughing as he kissed her back and then pulled away to sing a few more lines at the top of his voice. 

_ “I’ll count it as a blessing that I’m only un poco loco!” _

It was memories like that that kept Imelda’s hands unsteady and her mind wandering, long after the songs had ceased to play. She was useless making shoes with those sorts of memories, stitches like she’d just started doing this yesterday. Shameful. But, somehow, for the first time in her death, making shoes was not so important. It was far more important remembering the exact texture of Héctor’s suspenders in her hands, the soft give of his lips as she kissed him and kissed him again. Standing in the workshop now, half-made shoes in her hands, she felt her throat tighten as Rosita hummed a little piece of a song and Felipe took up the tune in a whistle. Un poco loco, indeed. 

She’d always slept out of habit once dead, but even those hours were stolen from her. More memories, not forced upon her this time, but ones she tried to drag back to herself anyway she could. Take her bed, for example. How had it felt, when she had shared a bed with him? Sometimes she’d liked to curl up and let Héctor hold her from behind. Other nights, they would trade places. Maybe her favorite was when she pulled Héctor to her chest, rested her chin atop his head while he wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed lazy kisses to wherever he could reach. What a foolish endeavour, remembering these things! How was she supposed to sleep now when she felt warm all over just thinking about those nights? It was infuriating. 

Or take going to the market. She walked with one shoe in hand and head in the clouds. Once, so long ago, she had travelled along the cobblestone streets of Santa Cecilia, basket in hand, and the skinny boy with big ears and an obviously homemade guitar had followed in her steps, serenading her with songs about her hair, her eyes, how even when she glared at him he felt lucky just to have seen her face. She’d known she had a reputation for being ‘distant’, as her mother had put it, but he hadn’t cared. “Imelda,” she’d told him after a week, because he begged for a name to rhyme with. And finally, one night while he walked beside her with guitar slung to his back, chatting back and forth about their upbringings, the mariachi players had started their tune and he had asked for a dance, so hopeful and guileless with his hand held out to her, so unlike any of the suitors her parents had presented her with, and...well…

After that there was no turning back. 

So, no, going on errands didn’t offer relief from the memories either. She even started missing occasionally with her shoe, which was simply embarrassing. Too busy having lovesick thoughts about her husband. 

Her brothers were even beginning to catch on. “Is there something on your mind, Imelda?” Felipe had asked while she helped with the stitching on a boot. “Anything I can help you with, Imelda?”  Óscar had wondered while they set the table for dinner. She’d shaken her head to both, but honestly, maybe she would feel better if she divulged her feelings to someone. If she  _ talked _ to someone. But she didn’t want to talk to her brothers.

She wanted to talk to Héctor. 

She resisted the idea for two weeks. Two weeks of telling herself that it was disrespecting Héctor’s wishes, that she would never find him anyways, that seeing him would probably only make the problem worse. But once there, the idea of seeing him again took over everything, especially her common sense. 

And so one month since he had left passed, and she decided she could at least go check up on him. Just one visit to get her head straight, and then they could both move on, Héctor with dying and her with...continuing on without him, just like old times. 

She left in the early morning, before the shops even opened, when the crowds would be less likely to bother her. She’d considered bringing Pepita along for her tracking skills, but the alebrije was still needed to protect the home and probably wasn’t necessary for this. If she was going to find Héctor, she did not want to attract attention. As far as anyone in the family was concerned, she was visiting an old friend across town and might not be back until late. Which was partly true.

Everyone knew where Shantytown was, in the way people were always so intimately aware of the things they most wanted to forget about. It was a far ways from the Rivera household, and took two hours to reach, but so far from home, she went undiscovered by Ernesto’s fans or annoying reporters, especially when she twitched a shawl up above her head. Slowly, the buildings around her degraded from massive, colorful structures to neglected and drab heaps of rock. The road turned from cobble to mud, the steps from sturdy stone to rickety wood and finally Imelda was at the riverbank, staring out across the mess of pathways and hovels of houses that stretched out from the city over the water, like it was trying to do everything it could to escape from the Land of the Dead. Or maybe like it’d been pushed. 

Imelda shut her eyes and breathed deep to steady herself. If she was turning back, it would have to be now. Did she really want to go wandering into the realm of the forgotten? 

Héctor’s hands had shook a little the first time she’d placed them on her waist so they could dance along to the mariachi players. They’d shook a little the first time he’d held the guitar she gave him. But they’d been strong when he’d held Coco the night she was born, clutching her close and promising to love her until even the stars were snuffed out. Right now, Imelda could be brave that way. Shantytown was simply another part of the Land of the Dead, nothing more. Besides, she’d been here before, not too long ago, tracking Miguel’s scent. Finding Héctor now should be easy. Imelda gathered her dress up and took a step out onto the water, underneath the crumbling arch of rock that served as an ever open gate. No turning back now.

Imelda’s once-pristine shoes were already a mess from the walk to the river, and her heels stuck terribly in cracks between the decrepit boards that weaved in ridiculous patterns across and above the water, connecting shack to firepit to shack and sometimes simply leading to dead ends or bridging over another path in a mess of brick and precariously placed beams. Eventually it made more sense just to take the shoes off. The click-click-click of well-made shoes was also attracting attention. The souls here were as dingy as Héctor was, mostly dressed in rags and also sporting evidence of broken bones. They passed her on the walkways as if on their own errands, or were gathered at junctions all seated either on piles of wood or brick or simply on the planks themselves. She saw several bottles of alcohol being passed around though it couldn’t even possibly be noon yet, and their voices were full of the life that was absent in their bodies, laughing uproariously to stories and jokes being shared. Imelda did her best to navigate around others, but she could feel eyes on her, probably wondering why such an uppity well-dressed obviously  _ remembered  _ skeleton was doing down here. Imelda kept her head high and just focused on finding that familiar straw hat. But Héctor was nowhere to be seen. The sun was high in the sky when Imelda gave up on doing this without help. 

Shoes in hand, she approached a group of women who were seated in a group at the edge of the water, skirts up around their knees as they soaked their feet. “Excuse me?” 

One of the women leaned back to get a better look at her and then raised a quizzical brow. “You lost, lady?” 

Imelda sucked in breath and forced a smile. “No, I’m looking for someone.” 

“I don’t think anyone you know is going to be down here,” another woman piped in, studying Imelda up and down. “Only the forgotten in this place.” 

Imelda grimaced and held a hand up. “I’m looking for man about this high. He has a gold tooth and a hat…” 

“Héctor?” the first woman asked, and all the others joined in like a flock of birds. 

“Héctor!” “She’s talking about Héctor!” “Why didn’t you just say you were looking for Héctor, señorita?” 

“Um,  sí , I am talking about Héctor, do you know him?” Imelda was a little shocked at how quickly the atmosphere had changed. 

“Ay, everyone knows Cousin Héctor. Missy, bring the lady to Héctor.” The first woman shooed at one of the others until the one called Missy scrambled upright, leg bones dripping water onto the walkway. She looked like the youngest of the group by at least a couple of years and, from her sigh, it was clear she was used to being sent on errands. She still smiled as she gestured for Imelda to follow her, steps almost a skip along the boards. 

“It’s not far,” she assured Imelda brightly after a moment, and then hopped down a rickety staircase with unnatural ease, leading to another layer of Shantytown, that giant maze of wood and brick and whatever else could be scavenged to develop out here. Imelda hadn’t wandered this far on Día de los Muertos, and the extent of the expansion onto the river was almost breathtaking. She crept down the staircase holding the railing tight, though the way the railing trembled under her touch was hardly reassuring. Missy waited more patiently than Imelda would have expected, absentmindedly playing with her hair while Imelda took ten times longer to reach the bottom. “Come on, señorita,” she said with an easy wave and a sweep of her skirt. “This way!” 

How the woman knew one shambling hut from the next Imelda couldn’t fathom, but it wasn’t long before she stopped and pointed out a particular shack. “Cousin Héctor lives there.” She turned to start back the way they’d come, but halted suddenly with a bit of a frown. “He isn’t in any trouble, is he? Are you some kind of government agent?” 

Imelda scoffed and stepped in bare feet onto the bridge that led to Héctor’s home. “I’m not a government agent. I’m...a friend.” Missy’s expression didn’t change. “We knew each other in life,” Imelda added after a moment.

The doubtful expression cleared and the woman raised a hand to her mouth a little in surprise. “I didn’t know that anyone left out here actually knew Héctor from life!” She twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “Thought you’d all been forgotten already, actually. He never talks about knowing anybody.” 

Imelda frowned a little and peered at her. “You seem quite concerned.” People were certainly all up in each other's business out here, weren’t they?

Missy lowered her hand and shrugged. “We got to look after our own, señorita, that’s all.” A small smile snaked its way across her face and then grew larger, simple and content. “He’ll be happy to see you!”

Imelda grimaced. “We’ll...we’ll see.” She made her way onto the slender bridge once more, taking careful steps. She turned about once and made eye contact with Missy, who waved. “I think I have it from here,” Imelda called across the water, quite pointedly and hoping Héctor did not hear. The woman’s hand flew up to her mouth once more and she used her other hand to scoop up her skirt and make a run for it. Imelda stuck her shoes in her apron pocket so she could use both arms to keep balance while she continued on to the hut. The last thing she needed was to disturb Héctor by falling into the water. 

There was no front door to knock on. Imelda settled for rapping on the board above the blanket that separated inside from outside. 

It didn’t take two seconds to hear a reply. “Aye, ‘Rique, I’m always telling you come in, come in…” 

Imelda coughed gently. “It’s me, Héctor.” 

Silence. And then the blanket twitched aside. Héctor. Or at least his head, held out on one arm. Imelda tried not to look too disturbed by the sight. Taking yourself apart so casually was not...something she was used to. “Imelda,” Héctor breathed, and then pulled his head back inside before she could reply. “Wait! Wait” There was huge crash. “I’m okay! Just wait out there, please!”

Imelda rolled her eyes but took the chance to put her shoes back on and tidy up. She knew some of her hair had to be out of place after wandering around Shantytown for half a day. The sound of frantic cleanup continued for a solid few minutes, leaving her wondering just how dirty a place could be, but finally the sheet was swept aside, and Héctor—completely assembled—smiled a little shyly as he removed his hat to welcome her inside. “Sorry. I was not expecting visitors.” 

Imelda ducked through the doorway into the hut, noted the open wall that looked out onto the water and the network of homes beyond, the tattered blanket shoved into a corner that must serve as a bed. “Except for ‘Rique, apparently.” 

Héctor winced. “Ah, well, I wasn’t expecting  _ you _ . I would have gotten a drink or something. Do you want a drink? I can go get you one.” He practically bounced towards the door. “There are plenty of people who owe me one…”

“Héctor.” He froze at her voice, one hand wrapped in the blanket entrance and smile slapped on his face. Imelda tilted her head to the side and approached him very slowly. “You seem...lively.” 

“I—I—I…” His voice trailed off and his smile disappeared with a sigh. The cheery joker facade fell alway in pieces. “I’m fine, Imelda. You didn’t need to track me down. I asked you to let me leave.” The blanket dropped, cutting off the swathe of sunlight spread across the floor, and he jammed his hat back on. “You don’t belong out here.” 

Did he think she wasn’t aware of just how much she didn’t belong out here? Imelda crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes. “I let you leave because you didn’t want me to watch you waste away. But you seem…” She couldn’t say ‘well’, not with that yellowing bone color and cracked limbs beginning to show through the new bandages, but he certainly wasn’t wasting away. “You don’t seem like someone about to die,” she finished instead. 

Héctor skirted around her and headed for the open wall, where he collapsed onto the floor and propped his back up against a beam, one arm reaching down to trail into the water. “The final death can come on very quickly, Imelda. Just because I seem fine doesn’t mean anything. For the forgotten, we can seem fine one night and be gone the next. I’ve seen it happen...many times.” He shook his head a little and stared across the water, stared across Shantytown. “You should go home, Imelda. This is not your place.” 

It wasn’t an order. She couldn’t remember Héctor trying to give her an order, ever. However, it was a strong suggestion.

Unfortunately, she’d never been an obedient bride. 

Héctor’s brow shot up when she sat opposite him, dress billowing out against dusty wood. She folded her hands in her lap and stared around the shack, studying his belongings. It didn’t take long. “Where is your guitar? I thought you would have it here.” 

“I don’t have a guitar,” he mumbled

“Don’t lie.”

“Why would I lie? I don’t have a guitar!” Héctor drew a knee up to his chest. “If I need one, I borrow it. But I haven’t had my own guitar since…” He sighed heavily and rested his head on that knee, eyes closing. “The guitar you gave me. I haven’t owned a guitar since that one. And Ernesto took that too. Just another thing to steal from me.”

Well, now he was just pouting. Imelda setted against the wall and, after a few minutes, reached to take her shoes off again so she could soak her feet. The water was chill against her bones, but refreshing. Clean. 

“I think Miguel has your guitar now, actually,” she said into the silence. “He talked about stealing a guitar from the cemetery. It was how he was cursed in the first place, and no one else in the family owned a guitar, so it must have been yours. A small comfort, I know, but…” 

Héctor raised his head, disbelieving smile spreading across his face. “Really? Really, he does? Ah, that is good to hear, gracias.” He nodded a little and let his one leg slide back out straight, almost to the point of touching her dress, but not quite. His fingers drummed a happy little beat on the floor. “That is good.  Sí , that is good.” 

They lapsed into silence once more, but it was no longer as heavy, not with the easy smile he now wore. Imelda shifted to immerse her legs up to the knees in the water, skirts pulled up and apron pushed aside. It did feel quite nice. She could watch the silhouettes of other residents of Shantytown moving to and from their homes, meeting each other with handshakes and hugs and shared bottles of booze. It was sweetly reassuring in a way she could not name.

“Imelda?” Héctor asked after several minutes. 

“Hmm?”

“Why are you here?” When she glanced back at him, the smile had been replaced by an anxious expression. He had stolen the hat off his head to play nervously with the fringe of straw. “Did something happen?” 

She stared back at him, mind gone blank. Had she thought of an excuse? She hadn’t even been sure she would find him at all. Why was she here? Why  _ was  _ she here? 

She couldn’t focus while meeting his worried gaze. She glanced back over the water and kicked her legs slowly. “I wanted to talk to you.” 

“About what?”

“Nothing in particular. I just…” She patted her hair nervously. “I missed you. Isn’t a wife allowed to miss her husband?” 

She could hear Héctor’s fingers drumming against the floor. “You didn’t need to come all the way out here. It could have been dangerous.” 

“Who do you think I am, Héctor?” 

The tapping paused, and then resumed, a little slower paced. “Noted.” He didn’t seem to have any questions after that. But the silence didn’t bother her. As her legs stirred in the water, Imelda could find nothing she would rather be doing. She’d only had a few precious years spent with her husband before Ernesto took him away from her. It was alright to sit in silence now and not worry about the time passing, at least for this one day.

And for the first time in weeks, her head felt clear, her shoulders unburdened. Why would her mind need to replay constant memories of Héctor with him right here beside her? Why would she need to worry when she could simply glance his way, know for sure that he was there, he was alright, he wasn’t gone yet? 

She wasn’t sure if thirty minutes or hours went by before she heard a faint scraping sound, and turned her head to watch Héctor scooting his way across the floor to her. Every movement was careful, his eyes on her face as he waited for her to object, but instead Imelda looked away until he was seated beside her, the injured leg tucked underneath himself while the other trailed into the water. His hands played nervously in his lap, an endless source of movement in the corner of her eye, and it was too easy to offer her own hand, palm up. She kept watching the bustling of the town instead of meeting his seeking gaze, and after a moment, his hand landed in hers. It was shaking slightly. Imelda drew in breath and closed her fingers tight around his before drawing both their hands into her own lap. 

“You don’t have to be so nervous,” she told him gently. 

“No?” She was almost insulted by how incredulous he sounded.

“We’ve held hands before.”

“It’s not just holding hands.” Now it was his turn to avoid her eyes.

Imelda waited a moment to see if he would elaborate and then huffed. “You never seemed nervous when you followed me around town singing.” 

He met her gaze and grinned at that. “Are you kidding? I was so nervous I could have thrown up.” 

She smiled a little and shook her head. “What could have possibly been so scary about me?” 

Héctor laughed, a private chuckle. “That I loved you, of course.”

Imelda could have sworn she felt her heart swoop. Ridiculous. “And why are you nervous now?” 

He paused, and then used his free hand to sweep his hat off his head in a grand gesture, voice rising to that theatrical trill. “The touch of a beautiful woman is always enough to make even the most intrepid man’s heart…” He stopped, sighed, groaned, stuck the hat back on his head, and muttered, “Sorry, I got nothing.” 

She hummed and stroked her thumb across his hand. “You’ve become quite the swindler, my husband.” It wasn’t necessarily a pleasant thought. Héctor had always been cheery, a believer in fate and chance, but not foolhardy or reckless. Not a conman. She turned her head to see his face. “Why?” 

He closed his eyes and shrugged. “Everyone loves Cousin Héctor. He’s funny and does tricks with his bones and has a new story every year of how he failed to cross the marigold bridge. Everyone is willing to do a favor for Cousin Héctor.” His eyes opened once more and found hers. “It’s my way of surviving, Imelda. I’ve been here an awful long time, after all.” 

She turned her gaze back to his hand in hers. “So you’re a performer now. A performer without music.”

“And you make shoes. We both made do.” Was there a trace of regret in his voice? She couldn’t tell. But he shifted a little closer and moved his hand in hers so he could fit their fingers together, and she decided to drop the subject. It could be left for another time, or never. 

For now, having him beside her was enough.

 

* * *

 

They stayed, sitting with their feet in the water and hands held in Imelda’s lap until the colors of the sunset began to ripple across the river. “You should get going,” Héctor murmured, and squeezed her fingers. He stood up carefully and brought her with him, and Imelda didn’t mind the extra momentum that allowed her to lean into his chest, tilt her face up to be close to his. “I’m sorry I wasn’t terribly entertaining,” Héctor told her, smile playing around his mouth. 

She smiled back and patted his shoulder. “It was a good time. Can you walk with me a little? I might get lost. This area is...confusing.”

“Anything for you.” 

He really shouldn’t say things like that. But she let him take her hand and lead her out of the shack, back out onto the rickety planks beginning to absolutely teem with life. Nighttime was claimed by the forgotten. She didn’t remember it being this lively when they tracked Miguel here on Día de los Muertos. Was it a faulty memory or was that night simply not something to celebrate out here on the river?  

Héctor moved with ease from path to path, and his hand in hers never let loose its grip. He tugged her closer when they reached more precarious sections, waved and called out to the others congregating around fire pits, turned into Cousin Héctor before her eyes, bouncing about and laughing at all their terrible jokes. A few people called out to Imelda, asking her what such a beautiful uptown lady was doing with a scoundrel like that. She just shook her head and pulled her shawl up to hide her face. Héctor squeezed her hand a little harder each time, a brief reassurance before moving on. 

He took her a different way than she had gone earlier, far more direct that took less than twenty minutes to reach the river shore. The mud of the bank squished beneath her feet, and she wondered if she should even bother putting her shoes back on at this point. The river was alight with fires and lanterns and laughter echoed over the water. It was almost welcoming, looking back through the stone arch. 

“Can you find your way from here?” Héctor asked, and chuckled a little as he rubbed the back of his head. “I hear some important people are trying to find me, so I’d rather not wander into town.”  

She smiled, knowing it would be mostly hidden by the shadow. “I know the way.” Gently, almost regretfully, she detangled their fingers and claimed her hand back. 

He crossed an arm across his chest and turned away to view Shantytown from afar. “Did you get what you came for?” 

She stared at his silhouette, that skinny and gangly form she’d found so endearing in life. “I’m not sure,” she replied at last. “Can I come back tomorrow?” 

Héctor whirled back around to face her. “Tomorrow?” 

She fiddled with the choker around her neck. “Do you have other plans, Cousin Héctor?” 

“Erm, no. No plans.” He ducked his head so his eyes were hidden by his hat. “You don’t have to come all the way out here just for me, Imelda.” 

“Didn’t I say I just wanted to talk with you?”

“Yet we sat for hours not saying anything.” He laughed a little, not happily. “You are feeling sorry for me.”

No. How to explain this was entirely her own simple selfish desire, just as his leaving had been his? That sitting beside him allowed her the first peace she had known in a month? That her days and nights had been filled with thoughts of him, and this was her only relief?

Maybe a lie would be acceptable. For his sake. It would only guilt him more to know how much she yearned for his presence, when he had not much more presence to give before the final death stole him from her again. 

“I cannot let you die alone this time,” she said, and reached to straighten his bandana. “I will respect your wishes. You do not have to meet your family. They will not watch you fade away. But I am your wife, and I have seen the best and worst of you. I can watch you die, and do whatever I can to ease your suffering.”

“Imel—”

“No. Héctor. Shush. This is my way of apologizing. For forcing our family to forget you. For tearing your picture away. For refusing to listen to you, every time you tried to approach me after I died. Please let me try to make up for my mistakes as you have tried to make up for yours.” She yanked the knot around his neck tight, brushed at the dirty fabric, and glanced up at him from beneath her eyelashes. Héctor was staring down at her, looking almost anguished. “I will see you tomorrow,” Imelda finished with her famous no-nonsense tone, and took a step back, hands landing on her hips. 

Héctor sighed a little and took off his hat to fan himself. “Alright. Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeated. 

“Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow.” She nodded curtly and turned away, starting up the muddy street towards the bright lights of the towering city. 

“Tomorrow!” Héctor called one last time after her, and she lifted one hand in a brief wave before hitching up her skirts and starting off. She had a two hour trek back home, after all. 

After an hour and when she was back on cleaner cobblestones, she brushed off the mud that had dried to dirt on her feet and put her shoes back on. She would be sure to wash up before anyone in the family could see the traces of grime. 

Felipe was in the workshop alone when she got home. “How is your friend?” he asked as she passed by the door, innocently threading laces. 

Imelda paused in the doorway. “She’s troubled,” she said at last. “I will go see her again tomorrow.” She took another quiet step, paused, and then added, “Tomorrow I will bring her some food.” Why she felt the need to tell Felipe that she wasn’t sure. He just nodded and continued with his work. 

Once Imelda was safely in her room, she wet a cloth and cleaned the rest of the dirt from her feet. She remembered how cool the water of the river had been, how well Héctor’s hand had fit inside hers. 

Maybe tonight, she would be able to sleep without the memories plaguing her, simply armed with the knowledge that tomorrow, she would see him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! See you next week!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for all the support—it means so much to me and keeps me doubly motivated!! I hope you all enjoy this chapter~

Imelda left even earlier the next morning, before the sun rose. She had a basket with her this time, bread and cheese and a small bottle of milk from the ofrenda they’d been saving for a while. Hopefully no one would notice its disappearance. And if they did? She was the matriarch. She could do with the milk as she saw fit. 

She’d swapped shoes too, opting for ones without heels. It helped her move a little faster even as the streets turned to mud. And, once she reached it, Shantytown seemed much less imposing. Even the stone archway with it’s carvings was not as intimidating with the dawn light beginning to catch on the very top. Imelda hiked her skirts up a bit and tucked the excess into her apron string so it wouldn’t catch on anything, and then took a step onto creaking boards. 

A figure folded out from the shadows of a nearby post, making her jump just a little. Héctor replaced his hat as he approached and offered an apologetic hand. “I thought this would be faster than you wandering around for hours.” 

Imelda shrugged one shoulder in quiet agreement and took his hand. “Lead on.” 

It was still early enough that Shantytown was barely awake. No groups of women dipping their feet in the river. No souls congregated around the fire pits. Héctor kept her steady the whole time, and when confronted with a downwards drop, leapt down so fast Imelda thought more of his bones would break, but then he was there, offering his hands around her waist so he could lift her down after him. 

She still couldn’t distinguish his hut from the others, but soon enough he was pulling aside the blanket and welcoming her inside. It was noticeably tidier than yesterday, with much more thought put into hiding the clutter. Had he even swept the floor? Yes, she decided he had. 

“I’m just as boring today as I was yesterday,” Héctor warned her, and let go of her hand, though his fingers lingered.

Imelda held out her basket. “I brought breakfast.”

Héctor stared as she uncovered the bread and cheese. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

“Have you eaten recently?” 

“Well, no, but really, skeletons shouldn’t need to eat…” 

She waved that irritably aside. “And we shouldn’t have allergies or be able to get drunk, yet you still get hungry, no?” She kneeled to spread the cloth over the wooden floor. “Perhaps it isn’t necessary for our existence, but food satiates us and makes us stronger. Sleep is still pleasant. We still breathe, even though we don’t have lungs. We still think, even though we don’t have brains. I don’t know why any of this is the way it is, but I do know that a good meal shared between two people—” She thunked the milk bottle down on the floor and looked up at Héctor, one brow raised. “Is either one of the worst or most pleasant way to spend some time. How do you think this meal will be?” 

Héctor put a hand to his forehead and slowly dragged it down his face. “You always knew how to make an argument. Fine. A pleasant breakfast.” He dropped to the floor in a great clatter of bones and sat cross-legged, chin propped up in one hand. Imelda tucked her dress beneath her and sat with her legs out straight towards the water. She unpacked the bread and cheese and the little knife she’d brought along as well. Héctor watched, one finger tapping against his cheekbone, as she cut two slices of bread and topped them with cheese, and his facial expression did not seem to promise a pleasant meal. 

“Why are you pouting?” Imelda picked up a piece of bread and waved it in his direction. He raised his head with a bit of a frown and took the bread with both hands. 

“I’m not pouting.”

“Yes you are.” 

“It’s not pouting. I’m...contemplating.” 

“Well, do it with a nicer face.” She picked up her own piece of bread and took a bite, turning her head to look out across the water as she chewed. She swallowed. She briefly wondered where the food went before putting it from her head. Silly to wonder now. “What are you contemplating?” 

He sighed heavily and waved the bread around a little wildly, the motion registering in the corner of her eye. “I’m just not sure what you want from me, Imelda. Is it more apologies? I can give them. Do you want me to apologize?”

She set her bread back down on the cloth and raised her eyes to his. “I told you. This is about me apologizing. Not you.” 

He made a pained face and his voice dropped to a whisper. “So what do you want from me? I’m not sure I can give it.” 

“Héctor…” She stretched an arm out between them and grabbed his shoulder with a firm grip. “Don’t think like that.” She raised an imperious brow. “I don’t want anything from you. Alright? Stop thinking that.”

He shook his head slightly and his eyes slid shut. “So you spend who knows how long travelling here, bringing me food, giving me your  _ time _ …” His voice cracked on the word and he jerked out of her touch, hands going for his hat and pulling it down over his face as a shield. His fingers were taught with nerves, almost ripping through the already fragile straw. Imelda drew back immediately. Suddenly, this wasn’t the Héctor she knew. It wasn’t even Cousin Héctor. 

She didn’t know who this was. 

She could only sit there in silence, listening to the labored sound of his breathing. Finally, the hat was lowered, and tossed aside. Slowly, Héctor came back to her, all apologetic eyes and shy smile. “Sorry. That wasn’t very welcoming of me. Where were we?” He reached for the bread where it had dropped on the floor, placed the piece of cheese back on top, took a bite and chewed. “Mmm, very good,” he said, mouth full. 

She couldn’t help but cross her arms and frown. “Héctor. I don’t expect anything from you.”

“Sí, sí, you said!” He took another bite and gave her a thumbs up. 

Alright, fine. If he wanted to disappear behind a fake smile, let him. She pulled back into her own space and ate in stubborn silence for a few minutes. When she dared glance back his way, Héctor was chewing distractedly as he watched the water, free hand playing nervously with the holes in his pant leg. Imelda couldn’t think of anything to say to break their silence. She reached for the bottle of milk instead, popped off the lid, and handed the bottle to him. Héctor took it with no resistance and stared blankly down at it in his hand. 

“It’s just milk,” Imelda said after he continued to study the bottle instead of drinking. “It’s good for you. Calcium is important for strong bones.” 

Héctor made a vague noise of agreement and thrust the bottle back towards her. “You should drink it.”

“You need it more.” 

He gestured to his bandaged arm, his leg, his ribcage. “Milk won’t help me now. I’m dying, Imelda. I’ve been slowly dying for years now. Nothing you do can stop that.”

She ignored the outstretched hand offering her the milk bottle. “I know that.”  

“I’m not sure you do,” he murmured, and tilted his head to one side. “Imelda, you don’t have to atone for anything by coming here. You don’t owe me anything, as a person or as my wife. You’re wasting your time on me when you should be with your family.” Slowly, he set the the bottle of milk on the cloth between them. “There’s nothing I can offer you. Only the certainty that one day you will come, and I will be gone. That’s it.” 

Imelda studied the milk bottle carefully while Héctor sighed and stood up, wandering over to the water and leaning against the wooden beam. She ran a finger along the lip of the bottle and her eyes wandered back to her husband. One day she would come, and he would be gone. It made something in her twist painfully. 

When Héctor showed no signs of returning to her, Imelda stood and brushed off her dress. She grabbed the bottle of milk and joined Héctor by the water. She took a sip of milk and then clinked the bottle against his arm. “Give me a story, then,” she said. “Pepita tracked Miguel all through the city until we finally found you. Just what were you two doing?” 

Héctor glanced her way and took the bottle reluctantly. “Ah, well...we were looking for Ernesto.” 

“Why? Because he stole your photo?” 

Héctor rolled his eyes and took a drink. “No, no, that came later. It was Miguel. He had our family photo.”

“Yes, I know that much.”

“Okay, well, I didn’t. Not for a long time. But he had it, with my face ripped out…” He paused, looked her way, and added dryly, “Thank you for that.” And before Imelda could even get affronted he was off again, babbling his tale with free hand waving all over to illustrate. “...and I always knew Ernesto had taken my guitar after I died— I always thought was pretty tasteless of him—and I guess Miguel saw the guitar and figured the missing face in the photo was Ernesto’s. That was all he told me, that de la Cruz was his great-great-grandpa. I never saw the photo until we were tossed into that cenote.”

“Miguel thought de la Cruz was his great-great-grandfather?” Imelda couldn’t keep the distaste out of her voice. Héctor looked over at her and chuckled. 

“You don’t like the idea?” 

Of being married to the man who murdered her husband? Hardly. Imelda waved a hand. “Just...keep going. If you didn’t know you were related, how did you end up together?”

“Ah, well...I guess it started with me dressed as Frida Kahlo, for the first time that night, at least…”

And so he told her the story. About meeting Miguel, their agreement, travelling to the rehearsal, to Shantytown, performing together at the plaza.

“He’s good, Miguel is. It was my first time up on a stage since...since I died.” At some point, they’d both settled back down on the floor and resumed lunch. They’d run out of bread, but Imelda cut another slice of cheese and handed it to Héctor, who ate distractedly while he talked and gestured everywhere with his hands, sometimes detached his hands completely to act out whatever scene he was narrating. She couldn’t help smiling even when she wanted to scoff or shake her head over how crazy a story it was. This was familiar, sitting and watching Héctor spin tales. Long ago, she had also been his only audience, sitting by the riverbank with her knees drawn to her chest, all warm inside while he went on about the amazing places they would travel to one day, the people they’d meet, the adventures they’d have. And then later, it had been stories for Coco, folktales complete with character voices and random bouts of guitar playing whenever he deemed it necessary to add background music. No matter with music or with words, Héctor had always been a master at telling a story. 

“But of course, I knew where Miguel would go, so that was the second time that night I dressed up as Frida Kahlo, which does not actually beat my record from  Día de Los Muertos thirteen years ago, which was not my best night, I agree, but it was necessary. So…” 

It was a ridiculous story, she would have to admit. Crazy, impossible, practically a fairytale—but that was just how things with Héctor worked out, wasn’t it? Imelda finished the cheese herself and offered the last of the milk to him. He drank it in a gulp and went on. 

“And the movie was playing right there, on the wall, and I remembered that night I...I…” The storytelling lilt fell from his voice. His shoulders slumped. “Well, that was when I realized I hadn’t died from food poisoning after all.” He shut his eyes, shook his head a little, and then went on with the performance. “Well, then we got thrown into a sinkhole and you know what happens from there. Your terrifying flying cat, yet another costume change, Ernesto runs, we pursue, you sing, Miguel almost dies, I almost die...good times.”

“It was an exciting night,” Imelda agreed slowly, but then had to smile. “I’m glad Miguel met you.”

“What? A scoundrel like me?” Héctor grinned and tossed the empty bottle from hand to hand. “A no-good musician with nothing to his name?” 

Imelda shook her head and began folding up the cloth to return to the basket. “You’re his great-great-grandfather. And he takes after you.” 

“A no-good musician with nothing to his name? Rather rude thing to say about your great-great—”

She couldn’t help it. She reached over and shoved him in the shoulder. “No! I’m glad he met…” She crossed her arms in contemplation. Finally, she put her thoughts together. “Miguel didn’t feel like part of the family. But knowing you, knowing where he gets it from, I think it will help him find his place. As a Rivera, and as a musician.”

Héctor hummed. “He’s a good boy.”

“Yes, he is.” Imelda watched the milk bottle being tossed into the air. “I wish I could have seen you two performing. I wish I could have seen him play.” 

Héctor smiled a little sadly and caught the bottle so he could hand it over to her. “Wait for next year’s Día de Los Muertos. I’m sure you’ll see him play.” 

Her fingerbones clinked against the glass as she took the bottle and tucked it back away in the basket. In the Land of the Dead, any object was worth saving. No matter how worn and ragged. Anything could be polished and made new again. 

She hated his implication that she would watch Miguel play without Héctor at her side. But that was what would happen, wasn’t it? By next Día de Los Muertos, this little hut would belong to some other forgotten soul, and Héctor would be gone. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, and folded the cloth over the bottle. “I should have put your picture up.” 

Héctor was quiet for a moment, and then reached over to lay his hand on hers, shuffling closer. “It’s alright. There’s nothing we can do to change it now.” 

She scowled and flipped her hand over so she could thread their fingers together. “I thought...I thought you got famous and ran off with some pretty girl. A pretty girl with flowers in her hair.”

He grinned and his other hand came up to play with the elaborate braiding at the back of her head. “I only like pretty girls with ribbons. I thought you knew that.” 

He’d always loved  _ undoing _ her ribbons, combing through her hair with his fingers as they got ready for bed, pulling the veil of dark hair to the side so he could kiss up and down her neck. Not a memory she needed with him so close, staring at her with those playful eyes. 

She turned her head out of his hold. “I thought you’d sold your songs for fame. That you’d sold Coco’s song for fame. And that you were never coming back.” 

His hand slowly lowered. “Well, you were right about the last one.”

Imelda cast her gaze out over the water. Afternoon had come and gone as they’d talked. “I didn’t know—if I’d known—if I even thought that you were dead, I never would have done it. I would have put your picture up, told your stories, wouldn’t have banished music. I did it to protect Coco. So she’d never know how much it hurt—” She trailed off, and Héctor tightened his fingers in hers. 

“I’m sorry, Imelda. I never should have left in the first place.” 

“And I shouldn’t have ripped our photo. You belong up there, on the ofrenda.” She sighed and lowered her head. “I thought Ernesto would have told me, if something happened to you. Even if he lied and said it was food poisoning, I would have known you were trying to come home. I would have known you still loved Coco. That you still loved—” Her voice choked off. 

“You,” Héctor finished for her. “That I still loved you.” She carefully didn’t raise her head. She doesn’t want to see his expression now. 

“So Ernesto made it so you never came home,” she murmured.

“And let you believe it was because I abandoned you and Coco,” Héctor agreed. “A lot of our problems travel back to Ernesto, don’t they?”

She nodded, sniffed, and lifted her head once more. “They haven’t found him yet. Would you like Pepita to find him for us? I was thinking of using him for bowling practice.”

“Or football,” Héctor agreed, but then crossed his arms. “But I’d rather not involve the terrifying flying cat. No offense.”

“Well, then we could ask Óscar and Felipe. It would be like old times.”

“Except your brothers always complained you weren’t being a fair referee.” 

She laughed. Those had been good afternoons, when she would stand at the side of the road, simultaneously calling out for pedestrian traffic and waving her handkerchief to signal a foul. She and Héctor had been married by then, and her parents could no longer disapprove of their daughter putting on such a ridiculous show. Or at least, if they disapproved, they were no longer in a position to do anything about it. She would have been pregnant by then as well, in the early months, and maybe she was willing to overlook a few illegal moves when Héctor darted in and kissed her cheek, which always elicited disgusted faces from her brothers and roll of the eyes from Ernesto. Those were wonderful days, even if the football games were only possible because Héctor was between jobs and money was tight. It was easy to forget about that completely when Ernesto scored a goal and both twins tackled him in revenge. Ernesto always made a show of staggering around under their weight before collapsing on the ground to cheers of victory from the younger boys. All their football games turned to wrestling matches, after enough goals. And Héctor would return to her side, dusty and sweaty, and she’d grab his arm and pull it around her shoulders as they’d watched Ernesto mess around with the twins and the sun would be warm on her face and Héctor’s kisses against her temple had been light and things were too perfect to be true. 

They  _ were _ too perfect to be true, she reminded herself. Just a few years later and Ernesto would poison Héctor and leave Imelda in the dust. Were all those afternoons fake memories? The whole time, had Ernesto thought of all of them as expendable? Would he have been ready to kill the twins, to kill her if he thought it would advance his career? 

There were five people in the world Imelda had known loved Héctor. Herself, of course, and Coco, and Óscar and Felipe. And Ernesto. 

“How could he do it?” she muttered, more to herself than to Héctor, but he shuffled even closer, so only the small basket separated them. 

“Ernesto, you mean?” 

She nodded. 

Héctor drew his legs up to his chest and shrugged helplessly. “I’ve been trying to figure it out. Decide which memories were fake, and which ones were real. We were friends for over twelve years, so was that whole time a lie? Or did I not notice him changing into what he became?” He rested his chin on his kneecaps. “I don’t think I’ll ever really know. Unless I get the chance to ask him.” 

Imelda studied his face and then pushed the basket out of the way so she could sit beside him. “I meant it when I said Pepita could find him.” 

Héctor shook his head. “No, I think I’d rather believe that the real Ernesto died somewhere along the way, when we were on the road and I didn’t have time to realize it. That way all the good memories...my childhood...those can stay safe.” 

It was the sort of answer she’d expect Héctor to give. Of course, she’d been the opposite, cursing out the charlatan of a man who fooled her into loving him and then abandoned her on a whim. That way, her Héctor had never been real. The man who broke her heart had never actually existed. But Héctor had to believe that Ernesto had been real. Or he’d be as broken by the hatred as Imelda had been. Because that’s what had happened, wasn’t it? She hated that man so much she had stripped her life bare of everything she once loved, and built shoes to fill the empty gaps in her heart. 

She didn’t want the same to happen to Héctor. She reached over and laid a hand on his arm. “Ernesto loved you. I’m sure he loved you right until the end. It’s just that at some point, I think he loved the idea of being a star more.” 

Héctor’s brow furrowed as he considered it, and then he tipped his head from side to side in agreement. “That’s probably the best way to think about it.” He swiveled in place so they were both facing the open wall and the water. “I’m afraid I didn’t give you a very pleasant meal.” 

It would be so easy to tip her head onto his shoulder. Or pull him close to her. The impulse was there, but she fought it, and settled for taking his hand once more. “We can try again tomorrow.” 

“Again? Tomorrow?” He turned wide eyes to her. “Won’t your family get suspicious of you coming by every day?” 

She raised a brow. “I’ve told them I’m visiting an acquaintance across town. They won’t dare question me.”

“True, you are fairly terrifying. Especially with the cat monster,” he agreed, perhaps a little too easily. “But visiting that acquaintance every day? Not making shoes? They’ll think you’ve caught some hideous disease, if you don’t want to make shoes.” 

“I’ve caught you,” she shot back. “And what else was I supposed to do here after I died? I know how to make shoes. Enough of the dead happen to need some. You could certainly use some shoes.” Her free hand gestured to his bare feet. “If I don’t have something to do, I go crazy.” 

He hummed a little. “I guess we all need something to do here, to pass the time.” 

Imelda studied their hands, safe in her lap. “What have you done?”

“Obviously gone craz—ow, ow, don’t squeeze so hard!” She laughed a little and relaxed her grip, automatically brought his hand to her mouth to lay an apologetic kiss on his fingers. She realized a little too late that maybe she shouldn’t be doing that so casually, so easily, but there was no stopping now. She lowered both their hands once more into her lap and tried not to feel too pleased with his obvious stunned silence. 

“You can tell me,” she said. “Tomorrow. What you’ve been up to. I’m sure you have enough stories to keep me entertained.” 

Héctor cleared his throat nervously and agreed with a nod. “Let me take you back. I don’t like the idea of you walking back home in the dark.”   

“I thought I was terrifying.” 

He stood, and lead her with him. Grinned when they were face to face. “Oh you are. But I have to act like a proper gentleman sometimes, right?” 

He kept grinning all the way back to land, leading her by the hand until it was time for them to part.

 

* * *

 

Mamá Imelda was needed the moment she stepped through the front door. Twice the amount of leather they’d arranged for had been delivered and the delivery person was waiting in the shop to get paid but this was  _ twice as much _ as they had ordered,  Mamá Imelda,  _ twice as much _ . 

“Pay them. I’m sure we’ll find use for the extra leather,” Imelda assured Julio, and sent him on his way. She wanted to wipe the mud from her shoes before anyone could notice. She was almost to the stairs when Victoria and Rosita appeared out of the dining room. 

“ Mamá Imelda!” Rosita gushed. “Have you heard about the delivery?”

“We left dinner for you,” Victoria added. “How is your friend?”

Imelda smiled and inched closer to the stairs. “I will visit again tomorrow.” 

Rosita’s cheery expression drooped. “Is she sick?”

“Skeletons don’t get sick,” Victoria reminded her sternly, and then looked back to Imelda. “Are they being forgotten?”

That child was always perceptive. “Perhaps,” Imelda said. “We cannot be sure, since no relative has arrived here recently. But she could use the company anyway.” Two more steps and she was safely on the stairs. “I will eat in my room, if that’s alright. Rosita, if you could…?”

“Sí,  Mamá Imelda,” Rosita chirped, and disappeared back into the dining room to prepare a tray. But Imelda could feel Victoria’s eyes on her the whole way up the stairs into the safety of her room. She shut the door and leaned against it, feeling exhausted for some reason. But then it  was back to business. She brushed off her shoes until not one fleck of dirt remained, made sure her skirts were clean as well, and set the basket that had been resting in the crook of her elbow the whole time on the side table. All she had left was the empty milk bottle, her knife, and the cloth. 

Rosita knocked gently before entering, and left Imelda with a plate of fine food and a drink. Imelda stared at the tray for a moment before taking it onto her bed and sitting beside it. She picked at a pepper with her fork. True, she had argued her case to Héctor as to why he should eat, but she felt no desire to now. She couldn’t see the point in her eating when there were so many souls out there, stretched across the water, without even a meal to ease their suffering as they were slowly but surely forgotten. These stuffed peppers and rice ought to go to one of them. But there was nothing she could do. The forgotten were the forgotten. The rest of the Land of the Dead wanted to forget them as well, frightened by the prospect that someday they too would begin to fade. Eventually, she would be forgotten as well, leave her house and sell her nice dress, live out in Shantytown with everyone else. 

The day she had died, Héctor had shown up at the office after getting the notification his wife had passed on. He’d still been wearing his fine mariachi suit then, though it had been a little faded and torn through at the elbows and knees. Back then, Coco’s memories of him would have been strong. Imelda wondered at what point did he sell his suit for the rags he wore now, and just what did he sell it for? For food? For drink? For one of his harebrained schemes to cross the bridge? She might ask. She certainly hadn’t given him the time to talk when she saw him that day. Yelled at him until two clerks were holding her back from hitting him with her shoe, cut off all his attempts to speak, told him to get out of her sight and never come near her again. He’d backed out the room looking so confused, so heartbroken, but she hadn’t cared. She didn’t want his justification for leaving her. For running off for fame and fortune and pretty girls. Still, he’d tried again, a week later, when she was first settling into a modest house, and she really had hit him with her shoe that time, made his head spin round, told him to never come back before he could even say a word. He’d tried a few times anyway, but given up when she refused to hear him out. 

Imelda was self-aware enough to recognize that one her most massively glaring faults was the inability to admit those very faults. Oh, but if she hadn’t let her temper rule her that day! If she could have known, back then, long before Miguel came, that Héctor had tried to come home...would things be different now? Or without his picture on the ofrenda, would he still be slowly dying? 

It would have made a difference. They’d only had a few precious years of being married in life, but she could have had decades more in death if she’d just listened. Had a little faith in the man she’d loved and actually listened. 

Imelda didn’t think she could eat now if she tried. She set the tray aside and moved to the window. She couldn’t see Shantytown from here, but she wondered what Héctor was doing. Laughing and joking with all his cousins? Or perhaps, same as her, staring out into the sky and regretting all the mistakes of their past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, I will see you next Friday!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support!! You're the best, really. Sorry that this week's chapter is a little shorter, but it makes room for some very big updates in the coming weeks, so I hope you enjoy it anyway!

Héctor met her at the edge of the river, just like the day before. He nodded to the basket on her arm. “A pleasant meal?”

“Not today,” she replied, and ignored his confused expression as he led her back to his home. Once the blanket of a door was swept aside, she unveiled the contents of the basket. Needles, thread, and patches of fabric she’d recovered by digging into the twins’ closet and finding the clothes with holes too big to be saved.

“We’re making a quilt?” Héctor asked, peering over her shoulder into the basket.

She shook her head with a small scoffing noise. “No. I’m patching your clothes. Take your trousers off.”

He retreated immediately to the other side of the hut within the space of a second. “A bit improper, don’t you think?” he called, plastered to the far wall.

Imelda worked very hard to keep the exasperation from her voice, and wasn’t sure she entirely succeeded. “Héctor, we’re skeletons. There’s nothing to see. And even if there were, I am your wife.” She jabbed a finger in his direction. “Take them off.”

“You can patch them just as well with all my clothes on,” he argued, and she sighed and rubbed at her temple before nodding in agreement.

“Alright. Sit, then.”

He approached her cautiously and then collapsed onto the floor by the open wall. Imelda spread out her scraps across the floor and threaded her needle. It was far more difficult without being able to lick the frayed ends of the thread but she managed after a few tries. “Leg out.” He obeyed, and she began sizing up the holes in his trousers. If she could patch those and fix the suspenders so he didn’t need that rope wrapped around his waist, and then probably insist he visit a proper doctor to get those broken bones looked at, he would clean up very nicely. He always had.

She selected a fabric scrap and tied a knot in her thread before carefully starting her first few stitches. This would be easier if he’d just taken his clothes off, but she could understand the reluctance. If he’d asked it of her, she would have said no just the same.

A contented sigh, and then Héctor crossed his arms behind his head and leaned back against the wall beam. “You know, you were never actually any good at this.”

Imelda pulled a stitch tight and side-eyed him. “Well, I got better after you left. Shoes require a lot of stitching.”

He hummed an agreement and turned his head to watch the water. Imelda put any conversation out of her head and focused on her sewing. Actually, she hadn’t sewed clothes for a long time, probably not since Coco was young and asked her for pretty dresses to wear. It wasn’t as bad as her embroidery, but she needed to take her time, careful to create even stitches. Luckily, Héctor seemed to have nothing but time today. He was calm, his eyes fixated on the water, no jiggling of the knee or nervous fingers tapping against the floor.

At peace. That was it. They were at peace.

In a strange, roundabout way, it reminded Imelda of mornings back when they were first married. She’d always been one to rise early, and had gotten in the habit of stealing Héctor’s trick for herself and kissing him all over his scrunched up face until he woke up as well. The quiet moments of holding him close to her breast while she watched the sunrise and he tried to catch just a few more seconds of sleep were a memory she hadn’t really realized she still held so dear. But somehow, this moment felt the same. The sunrise was replaced by gently lapping water, and instead of Héctor muttering little complaints about the coming of morning against her skin, he sat still as she worked, her hands close but rarely ever actually touching him. There were barely any similarities, but there was that familiar intimacy all the same, no need to break the silence for it could be comfortably shared for as long as they wanted, in this time that belonged only to them. 

She finished sewing on the first patch of fabric and reached for the next, attached that one with the same careful motions. The sun rose to noon, and slowly lowered back down. At one point she reached for his other leg, curled closer to his body, and he relinquished it, let her start patching the holes in that pant leg as well. She got faster as the memory of sewing Coco’s dresses came back to her.

Finally, she had to ask, “When did you sell your suit?”

“Hmm?” He turned away from the water, eyes wide, and she repeated herself, slowly, softly.

“When did you sell your suit? When I saw you before you weren’t in these...rags.” There was no sugarcoating the word.

He sat forward and unfolded his arms from behind his head. “Ah, well...I might have traded it.”

“For what?”

Héctor shrugged one arm and didn’t meet her eyes. “There was a boy, down here. Died young. His sweetheart finally passed and he was so embarrassed by how he looked he could hardly work up the courage to see her. We were about the same size, even if the sleeves were a bit long on him…”

Imelda bit at her bottom lip. “You traded your suit for his clothes?”

“To be fair, they were in a much better state thirty years ago than they are today.” He lifted his arms, one bare and the other still sleeved. “And he looked good in my suit. His color, you know? Of course, they were both forgotten soon after, but at least they were a handsome couple for a time. I don’t regret it. And besides, I’d given up on music. It was depressing to wear a mariachi suit.”

Imelda nodded and pulled another stitch tight. “Why?”

“Well, people would call out to me and ask for a song and I was getting very tired of it actually—”

“No.” Imelda placed a hand on his leg, just below the knee. “Why give up music?”

Héctor raised a brow and slowly reached to take off his hat. He fiddled with the straw as he looked back over the water and answered slowly, obviously choosing his words carefully, “There are many reasons.”

Imelda removed her hand and reached for another fabric scrap. A few more and she would be done. With the trousers, at least. “Then make that the story you tell me today.”

His eyes flickered to her face, hesitant, nervous. “It’s not a nice story.”

“Tell me anyway.”

Héctor watched her face for a long moment and then nodded and ducked his head, focusing on his fingers pulling at the straw hat. His voice was soft and husky, and she could tell it took a lot for him to keep his tone even and distant, as if he were telling someone else’s story instead of his own. “When I first got here, the first year, it wasn’t bad. Or at least, I thought I handled it pretty well. I played sometimes, when I could borrow a guitar, because it passed time and made others happy, but what I really wanted was my guitar. The one you gave me. But I was okay. I was okay.” He bit on a finger distractedly before continuing, emotion beginning to color his story.” Until I tried to cross the marigold bridge. Back then, they didn’t have fancy facial scanners. You must remember. They had lists of names. You tried to cross the bridge and if you couldn’t...well, then you couldn’t, and they marked your name down. I thought I’d be able to cross, that you and Coco would remember me, that maybe you’d leave the guitar as an offering and I could finally have that small piece of you with me again. But my feet sunk into the bridge as I went and...my name got marked down. Starting the grand tradition of my infamous attempts to cross the marigold bridge, but those are for another time.” He laughed, a hollow laugh, a dead laugh. “At first I thought it was a mistake. But then the next year and the next year when I couldn’t cross, I knew I was being left off the ofrenda on purpose. And it was around that time too that...that I started hearing Coco’s song.” His fingers began to tear at the straw of his hat as he went on. “Coco’s song, that was just for me and her, and sung by the famous Ernesto de la Cruz. With his beautiful white guitar. That was when I knew he’d stolen my songs. And taken all the credit for them too, since nobody I asked knew the name Héctor Rivera. Still, I wanted to think the best of him.” He stopped, and started a little at the pieces of straw broken between his fingers. He winced, then scowled, and then jammed the hat back on his head and crossed his arms. “Bastard.”

“Yes,” Imelda agreed quietly. “Bastard.”

Héctor stared at his own knee angrily for a beat before he waved a hand dismissively. “Well, after that, I was a bit bitter. He was famous, I was being forgotten. He used my songs—my song for Coco—to become famous. I didn’t want to play anything. And then Ernesto died, and he refused to see me at all. Soon after, he began performing the Sunrise Spectacular and there were pictures all over of him with my guitar and...well…” He made a frustrated noise. “I knew for sure then that I should have stayed home with you and Coco. If I hadn’t gone off chasing music, then everything would have been different. Music ended my life. It ruined my death. It brought nothing but misfortune. Especially after you turned me away and I realized what you must think of me. I didn’t want to be a musician, didn’t want to have anything to do with music. So I stopped.” He gestured around the shack. “I moved out here, with the other forgotten. Sometimes I’d be asked to play by those who knew I could, but I turned them down for the most part. I focused my time on figuring out how to cross the marigold bridge. I had my own photo on me, after all, a headshot Ernesto said we should carry for when the newspapers wanted our pictures. I...might have been a little desperate.”

“A little?” Imelda tried to keep her tone light, though he had been very right. This was not a nice story. “Only a little desperate?”

“Ehh…” He wiggled a hand back and forth. “Maybe a lot. But I just couldn’t find joy in music anymore. Following it away from you was the biggest mistake of my life.” He curled his free leg up to support his chin. “That’s why I gave up music.”

Imelda’s mouth tightened. She tied a finishing knot. “You played wonderfully at the Sunrise Spectacular though.”

He glanced up at her, suddenly bashful. “Well, it came back to me, I guess. But you sang so beautifully it covered up all my mistakes.”

Oh. Well. She cleared her throat and smoothed back her hair. “We did always sound good together.”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head to the side and smiled. “Yes, we did.”

Héctor had never been good at hiding his feelings for her. Imelda had enjoyed that in life, the adoring glances and lingering touches. Now, though, the way he looked at her was too much to handle. She cleared her throat again and began packing up her sewing supplies. “Well, those are your trousers fixed up. I’ll do something about that jacket tomorrow.”

“You’re coming by again?” He raised a brow. “Are you planning on coming every day until I pass?”

Imelda stowed her needle away in its case. “Perhaps.”

The gentle smile turned into a mischievous grin. “Won’t you get sick of me?”

She folded all her supplies up into the basket and stood, dusting off her dress. “I signed up to live with you for the rest of my life and only got four years. I say you owe me time.”

His eyes flew wide open and Imelda felt heat come to her face. Maybe she shouldn’t have phrased it that way. As if she was laying claim to him. She smoothed her hair back once more just for something to do with her hands and adjusted the basket on her arm before asking airly, “Are you going to help me home?”

He kept a firm grip on her hand all the way to the shore. Same as the first two nights, there were the hecklers, asking Héctor just who this beautiful woman was and how much he had to pay for her—which was apparently high humor in this part of town—and calling out for the both of them to join them for a drink around the fire pit. Héctor turned them all down with wild swings of his hat and promised to drink with them again soon.

“You are very loved,” Imelda said quietly as he lowered her down to the riverbank. “The people here,” she added immediately to prevent more misunderstandings. “These people here...you bring joy to them.”

He shrugged and squeezed her hand before letting go. “I’ve been around for longer than most. They know me.”

Imelda stared at his face illuminated by the setting sun, the markings beside his eyes, the swirling patterns up on his brow and on his chin, dulled by dirt and neglect but vibrant nevertheless, a splash of color and liveliness across his face that complimented who he had been in life. What he had meant to her.

“I don’t think I can make it tomorrow,” she blurted out, and his face fell.

“Ah, bored of me already?”

She grabbed for his hand again and squeezed tight. “Not at all. I just have a chore that needs done in the daylight. I’ll be back the next day, so wait for me.” She let go of his hand and backed away, slow and careful footsteps. “The day after tomorrow. I’ll be back. Alright?”

“Sí,” he agreed, bringing his hand close to his chest. “I’ll meet you here.”

She nodded and turned around so not to trip on her way up from the river. When she dared look back, he was still there, watching. He waved a little when he caught her looking. She calmed her nerves and headed home.

Once safe in her bedroom, she slumped against the door and shut her eyes tight. What was she doing? She’d gone to find him in hopes it would give her closure, to stop her mind from wandering to him when she needed to be doing other things, like running this family. And instead what was she doing? Visiting him every day, patching his clothes and holding his hand and all sorts of nonsense. She wasn’t a girl anymore, falling for the sweet musician boy as he serenaded her with song after song. She wasn’t even a proper wife anymore, having chased him from her home, denied him even one last chance to see his daughter.

One day she would travel to Shantytown and he would be gone. There was not a happy ending.

And yet, she knew the idea of a happy ending would bring her back, and back again, for one more smile, one more touch. Anything she could steal before he disappeared on her for good.

She ended up making shoes through the night, anything to try to distract herself. At some point Óscar came and watched her from the doorway, but he didn’t say anything so neither did she. They had all that extra leather, didn’t they? She could use it up.

Anything to keep thinking about how Héctor was going to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! See you next Friday~


	5. Chapter 5

Héctor was waiting for her at the edge of the river when she came two days later, as promised. He raised a brow at the large box slung across her back. “I know the jacket is a little worn, but isn’t that a bit much?”

“This isn’t about your clothes,” she told him, and offered her hand for him to take. “Shall we?”

She’d arrived later than she’d meant to. The sun was already high in the sky and Shantytown was fully awake. Héctor was stopped for conversation several times, and at one point grabbed Imelda around the waist without warning to prevent her from falling into the water when a group of men pushed past them. He let go almost immediately, coughing, as if that had been some illicit touch, and Imelda smiled to herself. It had been the same when they’d courted. Even holding hands had been enough to bring a blush to his face in the very beginning. She’d teased him about it, about how boldly he’d pursued her only to be shy now, how a musician constantly singing of love and love lost could be so timid. It’s different when it’s just a song, he’d answered, and she’d kissed him a week later, pulled him into a doorway and tugged at his shirt collar until she could stretch up and press her lips against his. She’d known she loved him then, as he stammered and went red and began babbling about how her family would probably be expecting her back soon until she grabbed his face and stopped his fretting with another kiss. His hands on her waist had been shaking, with nerves or excitement she never found out. He must have liked it though, judging by how much he kissed her after that.

“Imelda,” Héctor muttered, and gave her shoulder a nudge. “We’re here. Why don’t I take the box so you don’t fall?”

She shook her head, mostly to clear away the memories. If he carried the box, he might realize what was in there, and she wanted it to be a surprise. “I’m fine. If I fall, I’ll float.”

That didn’t prevent him from staring at her with apprehension the whole way along the narrow walkway to his hut, nor the look of relief when he could finally sweep aside the blanket for her. Imelda was beginning to get used to the place. And today, she felt like soaking her feet. She reached down to undo her shoes and left them in a heap in the middle of the room, along with the unwieldy box. The water was just as cool and refreshing as she remembered it. She could hear Héctor still pacing the room nervously, and cocked her head back so she could see him. “Come sit with me.” She patted the space right beside her.

He sat more carefully this time, not just as a jumble of bones. “I don’t think I thanked you for fixing my trousers.” He indicated the new fabric patching over the holes.

Imelda’s eyes narrowed at the way the thread already puckered in places. She still wasn’t very good at it. “It’ll do for now, I suppose. But really you need new clothes, or at least let Rosita do the sewing, she’s so good and patient, that girl…” She trailed off as she remembered she was talking about a future that Héctor didn’t have, and the sympathetic look in his eyes told her he was thinking the exact same thing. “Anyway, you’ve mentioned multiple times how insane your plans were to cross the marigold bridge. I think we should get plenty of stories out of those. That can be the deal.”

His expression turned from sympathetic to amused. “That’s nearly a hundred stories, Imelda. I’m not sure I even remember them all. And what deal?”

She swirled her feet in the water. “I come here. Sometimes I bring food, sometimes I fix your clothes. In exchange for a story. Like the ones you used to tell Coco. That’s the deal.”

He hummed and leaned back a little to scrutinize her from a distance. “I propose a small change,” he finally said with a roguish grin, lifting a hand to demonstrate between two fingers just how small a change it would be.

That smile meant trouble. “What’s the change?” Imelda sighed.

Héctor leaned back in close, movement so sudden it startled her, but not nearly so much as the sudden desperation in his eyes. “You tell me stories too.”

Imelda lifted a brow. “What sort of stories can I possibly tell you?”

“About Coco,” Héctor whispered, voice rasping, and suddenly she understood his pleading. “What was she like when she grew up? What about meeting Julio? And her children? My grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. And you’ve been across the bridge. You’ve seen Miguel. You’ve seen his family. What are they like?” With every question he drew closer to her, until she finally placed a finger against his lips to both shush him and push him ever so slightly away. He looked cross-eyed at her finger and then mumbled against it, “Can that be the new deal?”

Imelda slowly removed her finger and placed her hands in her lap. “I thought you didn’t want to get attached. That it would make it more difficult to die.”

“I just want to hear their stories. It’s different from getting to know them, face to face. Please, Imelda.” He moved in close once more. “If you feel you need to apologize for anything, then let this be how you fix it. Let me know my daughter, even if it’s just through stories. It’s more than I will ever get otherwise, and it is the most precious gift you can give me.”

Imelda’s eyes darted towards the box she’d abandoned on the floor. Slowly, Héctor followed her gaze. “Another gift?” he guessed. She nodded. “Should I open it?” She nodded again.

Héctor stood and kneeled over the box, fingers pulling at the twine keeping the lid on tight.

“Here’s one story about Coco,” Imelda said softly. “She sang your song every night. She couldn’t always remember the words, but she sang it at the same time, right when you said you both would. Even after I thought you’d abandoned us, even after I banned music from the house, I could listen at the door and hear her singing softly to herself, at the same time every night. She never wanted to forget you.”

Héctor lifted the lid off the box and went very still at the sight of the guitar nestled in the straw.

“I couldn’t find a proper case for it, so you just get a box,” Imelda said with a slight cough. “And no, it isn’t the original, obviously. But they’re busy selling all the offerings de la Cruz kept in his home, and that happens to include several hundred guitars. I thought it might be...amusing for you to steal a guitar from him in turn.”

Héctor still didn’t move, stuck with his hands around the lid of the box, staring at the white guitar, the very image of the one Imelda had gifted him, so long ago.

“Héctor?” she asked at last, when he made no sign of speaking. Had she gone too far? He’d told her why he hated music now, but surely in his last days he could return to the thing that had brought him so much joy, that had brought them _both_ so much joy. Or was the wound too deep? Imelda drew her feet from the water and swivelled to face him, reaching one hand out in case he wished to take it. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

The lid fell to the floor and Héctor threw a hand over his eyes, the other hand reaching out and squeezing hers. “Every night?” he croaked.

“Every night,” she repeated, and shuffled even closer. “She loved you so much, mi músico. Even if she would never see you again, she was so proud to be your daughter.”

He nodded a little, mouth a tense line that she recognized as his attempt not to cry. Imelda encased his hand in both of hers. “Music might have been a part of what separated us, but not so much as Ernesto, or...or my own faults.” Her voice cracked a little. “But music was what brought us together, and it was what made our home so happy, for the short time we had. I would wish you that happiness back, for your last while with me.” She squeezed his hand tight. “Maybe you can sing Coco’s song for her once more.”

Héctor parted his fingers of his other hand so he could peer at her from between them. “I haven’t really practiced in years.”

“Then you have something to do on the days I’m not here.” She nodded primly and straightened up before letting him reclaim his hand. “I need to be back with my family—” She held a finger up to forestall any comment from him. “— _some_ days. They need my help with the shop, and there are many details of the business I have never divulged to any of them, but I believe Victoria is up to the task. But I have been making shoes for so long now that I don’t think anyone could blame me if I don’t wish to work every day. So for now, I will spend one day with them, and one day with you. And we can spend our hours trading stories, or sharing pleasant meals, and I can confess I would quite like to hear you play again, if you would let me.”

Héctor blinked owlishly and then nodded. “Y-yes of course.”

“Then that’s our deal.” She held his gaze and waited for him to nod his agreement. “Good. Now, you go first. How exactly do you misplace someone else’s femur?”

Imelda was not sure how much of the wild story he wound for her was true and how much was creative embellishment, but she couldn’t stifle her laughter either way, which just made him grin and gesture even more grandly as he continued on. Such a performer, as much as he’d tried to shove that label onto Ernesto instead. He finished his tale as the sun was just starting to set, and his gaze lept longingly to the guitar still nestled in the straw.

“Go ahead,” Imelda urged, and he removed the guitar from the box, brushed away the straw that came with it, and held it carefully in his lap. Slowly, his fingers plucked at the strings, and he physically recoiled at how out of tune it was. The next few minutes were spent with quiet attempts to make the guitar serviceable. Imelda hoped she had bought a guitar with at least some quality to it—there hadn’t been as many of the white guitars left as she’d hoped, and she’d traded four pairs of shoes made with the extra leather for this one. Finally, Héctor seemed satisfied, and began to strum a familiar melody. _La Llorrona_. He hadn’t seemed surprised to find out it was her favorite song, back when they were getting to know each other.

“It fits you,” he’d said.

“Because I’m a weeping lady?” she’d scoffed.

“No, no.” He’d plucked the main melody on his homemade guitar, so faint the notes were almost lost. “Because it is lonely, but beautiful, and makes me want to play it again and again.” He’d been too lost in the song to see her cheeks flare red.

“Are you going to sing along?” she asked now, watching his skeletal fingers move across the strings. Occasionally she heard a wrong note being plucked, but overall he seemed to have retained his talent.

“One thing at a time, mi amor,” he murmured distractedly, eyes sliding closed as he allowed his song to grow in volume.

_Woe is me, weeping lady…_

Mi amor. She shouldn’t be feeling her heart race at the words. Not least because she didn’t have one. Hector didn’t even seem to realize he’d said it. But they weren’t teenagers anymore. And she, at least, was far too old for any sort of courting, even if he was eternally stuck in his early twenties. And yet that was the distinct feeling she had: she was courting her husband all over again. Imelda shut her eyes and tried to listen only to the music, to let it clear her head, but it was no good. This song was wrapped in too many memories. But she couldn’t ask him to play anything different. Not with the gentle smile gracing his face, the ease into which his body began to sway in time to the music. How had he gone without music for so long?

How had she?

After he finished one song he began another, fingers fumbling at the beginning until he remembered the melody and continued on. Imelda sat a few paces away, watching his face, his hands, the setting sun throwing everything into sharp shadows. She supposed that ought to make the scene seem sinister, but nothing in this hut could ever be sinister. This was a safe place, a place so far removed from what the rest of her afterlife had been that it barely felt real at all. As the dim shape of the moon began to replace the vivid sunset colors in the reflections off the water, his playing began to die down until he finally let his fingers fall from the strings. His eyes opened and met hers immediately. “I’m sorry. I’ve kept you late,” he said with a bashful smile.

“I kept myself,” she admonished him gently, and stood up. “Will you walk me to the shore?”

“Of course.”

Earlier, he had seemed overwhelmed just at grabbing her waist to keep her steady as they’d walked through Shantytown. This time, Imelda offered her elbow, and his eyes flickered to her face only once before he took it. Their bodies nestled a little closer together, closer than a handhold could take them. There. That felt right. It was a little bit awkward when they encountered anyone else on the walkways, but Imelda refused to let go as they edged around. She couldn’t see Héctor’s face clearly, with only the moon and lights of the bonfires to guide her, but she imagined he would be blushing if he had the ability each time her hip brushed against his leg, each time she turned her head to watch the towers of the city and felt her hair sweep along his bare arm. It took a pitifully short time to reach the edge of the river.

“So I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” Imelda reminded him, slowly detaching their arms but keeping their hands wrapped tight. “And then I will give you some stories.”

“About Coco?” Now, the light of the city reflected the earnest desire in his eyes.

Imelda nodded. “About Coco. I can tell you about her teenage years. She was a stubborn girl.”

“Wonder where she got that from,” Héctor muttered, and saved his hand before she could squish his fingers in retaliation. “I’ll wait for you here,” he said, and swept off his hat in a gentlemanly gesture. “Goodnight, Imelda.”

Goodnight indeed. As Imelda began the walk home, she tried to think of ways Coco’s stubbornness could somehow be blamed on her father. The free spirit, certainly. But she would always think of Héctor as tenacious instead of stubborn. Or maybe more hopeful. Hopeful that the girl he fancied would give him her name, that she would agree to court him against her family’s wishes. Hopeful that she would marry him and bear his child. Hopeful that he could run off with Ernesto and gain fame within months, earn enough money to buy his family all the fancy things he thought they were lacking. An endless supply of hope that had dried up over his time in the Land of the Dead. But really, what had his hope done for him? Héctor had hoped and hoped and hoped—hoped to cross the marigold bridge, hoped to go home, hoped to see his daughter, hoped to reconcile with Imelda after she died, hoped to get his picture back on an ofrenda, any ofrenda, hoped to have just one last chance, just one. And now, he waited in Shantytown for the day his daughter died so he would disappear at last without ever seeing her again. His picture was gone, and there was no way for Miguel to come retrieve it anyway. With no picture on the ofrenda and only Coco’s fragmented memory, the only hope Imelda had seen in him was in the promise to tell him stories about Coco, about her family. _His_ family.

Héctor’s hope had died the moment Miguel was forced back to the land of the living. Maybe the golden light had stolen something from him after all.

Imelda’s thoughts kept her occupied as she climbed the streets towards the Rivera residence. But no matter where her mind wandered, it ended in the same destination, as it had every night lately. Héctor would die. Héctor would die. Héctor would die.

Victoria was sitting on the front step when Imelda finally arrived home, reading a book. She smiled her reserved little smile and stood. “I thought I would wait to be sure you got home safe. How is your friend today?”

Imelda reached out and placed a hand on Victoria’s cheek. “Better, mija. But you should sleep. I wish to teach you tomorrow.”

“Teach me?”

Imelda nodded. “How to run this business.” She shrugged her shoulders a little for effect, as if loosening up. “I have been at it for so long, I think I might take a break for a few months. Perhaps take up a hobby.”

Victoria studied her grandmother’s face for a long moment before nodding. “I’ll do my best.”

“I know you will.” Afterall, Victoria had inherited Héctor’s tenacity.

 

* * *

 

Imelda’s time filled up easily after that. Half her days were spent in the shop, teaching Victoria the intricacies of running a business and drilling the barter system she had established with local traders into her head. No doubt some of them would try to take advantage of Victoria’s inexperience when negotiating. Not on Imelda’s watch.

And the other days were spent in that separate world that was Héctor’s home, sharing stories back and forth. Imelda tried to drudge up every last memory she had of Coco since the day Héctor left, tried to immerse him in those memories so it would be like he’d been there himself. Of course, she had to talk about the difficult days of learning to make shoes, of starting her own business, and trying to raise Coco all at once, but he drank those stories up just as eagerly, even if his brow would furrow and the apologies would spill from his mouth whenever Imelda had to pause for breath. She’d wave them away and insist it was his turn to tell. He seemed to have enough adventures in the afterlife to fill entire novels, let alone a few hours a day. Of just how he’d broken his bones, of his time out here in Shantytown, and of course his many attempts to cross the bridge, one of which did tie into a broken bone. Automobile accident her foot. One afternoon, Héctor brought out a small notebook from beneath the blanket where he slept and showed it to her. It was filled with ideas on how to fool the scanners and cross the bridge. A hundred ideas and more. Some of the ideas were crossed out quite emphatically, usually with notes in the margins like ‘DOES NOT WORK, DO NOT ATTEMPT AGAIN’ or ‘APPARENTLY THIS IS ILLEGAL’.

“So, there I was, clinging to this man’s back, hidden underneath his coat…”

“You did not!”

“Sí, sí, I did! I’m not saying it was the most ingenious plan ever, but I think it might have worked if he hadn’t sneezed while we were standing at the scanner.”

“How did him sneezing do anything?”

“Well, the agent behind the scanner got suspicious when his humped back said ‘bless you’. Of course, I still tried to make a break for it, but the bridge was as impossible for me to cross as always.” He shrugged. “Would have liked to know if I could have made it being carried though. As things turned out, we both spent the night getting lectured by customs and poor Jorge still runs away everytime he sees me, poor man. I think it was quite the traumatic experience for him.”

Imelda snorted into her fist and then couldn’t help but continue into a laugh at the image of Héctor trying to sneak across the bridge only to be foiled by an automatic response to a sneeze. “Well,” she said at last when the laughter had passed, leaving her stomach aching slightly. “I think at least you make life more interesting for everyone.”

He nodded sagely. “I am quite the legend down at customs. Which is flattering but also a real bother when I need them _not_ to know my face. And that did lead to the first time I tried to dress up as Frida Kahlo…”

Oftentimes, after the stories wound down, they would sit side by side with their legs in the water. There was no need for words anymore, as they watched the sun set and the water light up with bonfires. No need to be anything more than a husband and wife, quietly enjoying each other’s company. It was a marked difference. Imelda had once measured her days by the number of shoes she managed to make. Every minute counted. There had been no time for idle behavior or pointless chatter, not with a young girl to raise and a family to lead. It was with Héctor that spare time had turned to song, that hanging laundry became a game, that cooking was a joint experiment with hopes of success. He’d brought that out of her in their short time together, helped flourish that rebellious and yearning part of her soul that had never been given the chance to shine before, and now, for the first time in years, perhaps since dying or perhaps even before that, perhaps since she realized Hector wasn’t coming back, Imelda didn’t long for something to occupy her hands during those quiet hours in the shack that stretched across the weeks. There was no need for shoes or embroidery she was terrible at. It was alright to simply _be_.

She felt at peace. That was it. It wasn’t a word she was used to associating with herself, not with Mamá Imelda, but here she was, feeling like she could actually close her eyes without the world falling apart.

Sometimes Héctor would take his guitar out of the box—he kept it all wrapped up carefully save for when he was playing—and practiced softly, bits and pieces of songs she both knew and couldn’t recognize. He played too quietly for anyone outside the hut to hear since, as he explained: “If they knew I’d taken up guitar again I wouldn’t get any rest.”

It easily became standard practice for her to take his hand, while they walked or while they sat side by side near the water, no excuse needed. Or to link their arms together. To nudge and poke in fun as they traded stories. It seemed natural, to claim that small bit of intimacy between them, that ease of touch. They were married, after all, she told herself one evening while Héctor led her to the shore, his hands on her waist guiding her way. They’d had a child together. This was hardly scandalous.

And yet she would return home and feel a strange warmth in her fingers that couldn’t possibly be real, just a small piece of her imagination longing for Héctor’s presence once more.

The most difficult part of the entire arrangement, oddly enough, was trying to come up with excuses for her absence to feed her family. After two weeks of claiming she was visiting her unwell friend, Rosita started on about possibly tagging along for a visit, bringing some food and other treats, which forced Imelda to change her story. She couldn’t tell the truth. If Óscar and Felipe found out that the brother-in-law they’d adored, if Victoria found out about the grandfather she longed to know, if any of them found out that Imelda was visiting him in Shantytown, Imelda didn’t think she’d have either the force or the heart to prevent them from visiting Héctor as well, against his direct wishes to be left alone. It was one thing for Imelda to break that wish, but she couldn’t lead the family right to him when he just wanted them to forget him as well. So she made up a story about feeling up to constitutional walks, and then about filling out some paperwork related to Miguel down at the border. For a week she claimed her days away from the house were spent looking for a new dress since the one she owned was too formal for work, and yes of course it could take days to find one she liked! She ended up grabbing a new dress one night on the way home from Shantytown without bothering to try it on, and then spent the night with her needle and thread trying to let the bust out a little and add some ribbon details to the skirt and sleeves, hopefully to the point it looked like she might have spent days trying to find something she liked. Imelda changed into the dress as the morning light was shimmering its way across the land of the dead, and studied her reflection in the mirror. No, it wouldn’t do at all. Even if it was her color, the cut of the dress and extra flow of the skirt screamed of youth when her strands of white hair did not. Imelda hid the dress away and pretended she’d given up on the search altogether. After a few weeks, no one bothered asking her where she was going every other day, which was fine by her. She wasn’t sure what explanation they all had in their heads, but it was a relief not having to lie to them anymore.

Pepita wasn’t impressed by the fact she’d been stuck on guard duty on top of the house for so long, and Imelda tried to make time to spend with the alebrije, stroking her ears and taking her out on small errands when she could. Thankfully, the number of people stuck on harassing the Rivera family had trickled down to almost none when the family refused to speak and Héctor made no appearance. It was much more interesting to report on the manhunt for Ernesto de la Cruz, although apparently police hadn’t had that much luck on that end. Imelda wasn’t surprised. Ernesto was crafty, always had been, and there were plenty of places to hide away in the towering and winding streets of the Land of the Dead.

“Yeah, I’m sure he’s out there,” Héctor said simply when Imelda brought it up one night. “Probably trying to see if he can flip this to his advantage. Make me out to be the fake or something. But getting caught on camera trying to kill a living boy is pretty damning. He’ll be found when he’s tired of running.”

It was six weeks since she had started visiting him. Héctor played a few chords on the guitar experimentally, made a face, and then shifted fingers to produce a more harmonious sound. “It’s different with bones,” he muttered, and gave his fingers a dirty look. “Takes some getting used to.”

Imelda hummed from where she was sitting by the water. Tonight, like most nights, the water was alive with the reflection of bonfires, and the sounds of laughter and singing travelled across all of Shantytown. “What are they celebrating?” she asked.

Héctor put the guitar carefully back in the straw box and came to sit beside her. “Nothing,” he explained with a shrug. “Someone got their hands on some quality alcohol, probably. That’s enough cause for a little bit of dancing.” He glanced her direction and cast a grim little smile. “We don’t have much to celebrate down here. So we take what we can get. If it can get our minds off the pain of being forgotten for even just a few hours, then it’s worth it.”

Imelda frowned and leaned closer to him, studying his face. “Are you in pain?” He never seemed to be, but the image of him spasming with golden light was so very easy to call to mind.

Héctor held out his free hand in front of him, flexed his fingers, and slowly shook his head. “No. I’m not sure how. It was niggling at me for years, some sort of ache in my bones. But Miguel must have really jogged Coco’s memories of me. I might feel great right up until she dies.” He turned to her and lowered his hand. “That sounds a lot nicer. I hope that’s what happens.”

She scowled and looked back out across the river. By one of the bonfires she could make out the shadows of people frolicking, laughing in spite of being forgotten. She didn’t think it was a nice idea. Not that she wanted Héctor in pain, but the idea he might not even know when he was close to the final death, that she might arrive at the edge of the river one day just to have him never show up, to know that he was gone as sure as she would soon receive the notice that one of her relatives had died, been processed, and was ready to be picked up.

That sounded unbearable. Like something she might truly fall apart under.

Imelda didn’t want to think about how she would tell Coco that her arrival had caused her father's final death. 

Héctor was humming his songs under his breath, and she was sure she caught fragments of something she didn’t recognize. It distracted her enough. A new song? She wouldn’t pester him about it now. He’d always been so protective of his new songs, right up to the point he was ready to sing them as loud as he could, like their tiny kitchen was the world’s largest stage. Unless it was Coco’s song, of course, which was always a gentle lullaby until Ernesto stole it. This particular melody would probably never leave the hut, which she would have to accept. Imelda moved to lean against the wall beam, legs trailing in the water as she closed her eyes and listened to his nameless song.

The next day, she would take Victoria out to show her the ropes on buying the very best supplies, teach her when offerings from an ofrenda were desirable for a quality shoe, or when anything would do. Teach her how men’s shoes could be taken apart and salvaged for pieces for a woman or child’s shoe, reusing and reusing again the supplies of this world so it would never run out. It would be a busy day, and she really should be going, but after awhile she was content to shut her eyes and simply listen. The day after that? Maybe she would finally fix Héctor’s jacket. Although, honestly, it was past the point of fixing, with an entire sleeve missing. At least she could remove the other sleeve as well and stitch up some of the tears. Maybe she’d bring lunch along too—she had some fine chocolates Elena had left as an offering a few years back that she’d never found the excuse to eat. Since offerings from ofrendas never seemed to age or spoil no matter how long they were kept in the Land of the Dead, Imelda was sure it would be a good treat, something Héctor wouldn’t have eaten for a long time now. And the day after that...well, she wasn’t sure yet. She’d lived by the same schedule most of her life and certainly most of her afterlife as well. Schedules were important. Schedules kept money being made and food on the table. Shoes and schedules held things together. But, as with the easy passing of the hours, schedules seemed to fall away as well. And again, she knew it was because she was with Héctor. Héctor, who had floated between jobs and playing at the plaza, who would work a sixteen hour day during the harvest season and then spend the next week up on the roof writing music, who pulled Imelda from her own work so they could dance across the kitchen, who lived on spontaneity and encouraged it out of everyone he met with simply the start of a song.  

“Seize your moment.” That had been Ernesto’s most famous quote, wasn't it? Imelda was pretty sure he’d stolen the inspiration for that one from Héctor as well. Either way, Imelda was finding it quite easy to disregard her schedule, to not have concrete plans for three days from now, for a week from now. And she was finding it disturbingly easy to let shoes—the great glue of the Rivera family—slip to wayside. Back in her world for just a few weeks and Héctor was undoing all the careful work she’d done to close off her heart and ban music from her life.

But only for a while. Soon, Héctor would die and she would return to normal. So it was alright to lose herself for now. There wasn’t much time.

Imelda wasn’t asleep, but she heard Héctor stop playing, and a moment later, a blanket was draped over her, his fingers tucking it in gently around her shoulders. “See, so boring you put her to sleep,” she heard him muttering to himself. “Should have told the story about the fifteen monkeys, that’s a good one. How late is it?” Silence, and then he left her side and picked up the guitar once more, wandering around the hut while he fiddled with the strings. “She can sleep for an hour or two. It will be a while before they send the cat monster.”

Imelda would have rolled her eyes if they’d been open. True, she hadn’t ever given him a positive experience when it came to Pepita, at least one where he’d been conscious, so maybe his caution was justified, but he was still being ridiculous. She would take him flying sometime, maybe, if she was feeling particularly careless, sit on Pepita’s back with Héctor right behind her, arms wrapped around her middle and face perhaps buried in her shoulder until she could point out the beauty of the Land of the Dead from above. So he could see it for himself, at least once.

After a while, Héctor came to shake her shoulder and she opened her eyes, pretended she had been asleep to spare him any sort of embarrassment. He led her to shore as usual, and she made it home in good time, but her bedroom there held no attraction for her. Instead, she sat up on the roof, nestled against the soft fur of Pepita’s belly, stroking the alebrije and listening to the happy thrum of Pepita’s purrs. At peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoyed the update. See you next Friday!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading/leaving kudos/reviewing! I'm so very very happy that people are enjoying this story, and I hope you like this update!   
> It was fun looking into traditional Mexican songs, I enjoyed listening to Saúl Martínez for this chapter.

A few more weeks passed. Victoria took to running the shop much quicker than Imelda had, though Imelda had not had such a fabulous mentor, if she did say so herself. Her excursions every other day were no longer questioned, and with the shop taken care of, she began spending more of her days home preparing for days with Héctor, whether it was buying food, gathering materials to fix his clothes, or simply trying to think of which stories to tell him the next day.  Óscar and Felipe kept giving her funny looks when they caught her daydreaming, but it was difficult to care. She was...happy. She’d never thought her husband would make her happy ever again, and yet she was. A giddy, youthful sort of happy. Imelda even caught herself humming as she walked to the market and was very grateful the twins weren’t there to catch her at it. 

The next day, she woke early, as always when she was heading to Shantytown. She packed up a basket of various treats, made certain Victoria was set for the day, and started out. Pepita mewled pathetically from the roof and Imelda spared a few minutes to scratch her behind the ears, but Shantytown wasn’t ready for Pepita quite yet. 

What had been at first a two hour journey had dwindled to nearly half that over the weeks as she managed to snag a trolley by arriving at just the right time, take a couple of discovered shortcuts, and move quicker with confidence that she knew where she was going. The sun was only midway in the sky when she reached the edge of the river and waited for Héctor to appear. 

But he wasn’t there. 

Imelda frowned and shifted her basket from one arm to the other. He’d never failed to meet her before. Maybe he was just running a bit late. She would wait. 

Five minutes went by. And then ten. Shantytown residents moved in and around the boardwalk and their homes, some passing Imelda to travel into the city, most staying in their own domain. Imelda began to feel sick. How had Héctor seemed last time she saw him? He’d been well, she thought, eagerly listening to her stories and trading his own, experimenting new melodies on his guitar, grinning and laughing and seeming...so alright. So where was he? 

Coco couldn’t have died. She couldn’t have! Wouldn’t Imelda know by now, wouldn’t she have gotten a message? Wouldn’t her family have known to just ask Pepita to fetch her? No, that couldn’t be! Coco couldn’t be dead! If she was dead, that meant that Héctor…

She’d long ago stopped needing Héctor to actually guide her steps. Imelda hitched up her skirts and ran. Her boots beat a steady rhythm on the crumbling wood beneath her feet, and her basket bounced in the crook of her elbow. She ducked around a couple of children playing ball, avoided the women soaking their legs in the water, and nearly leapt down the staircase that would take her to Héctor’s home. And then she could see it, his hut in the distance, with skeletons spilling out of it in a way she’d never seen and—oh God—did half of Shantytown gather to join him in his last moments? Imelda stopped short and stared at the crowd, the way everyone was fighting to be inside the hut. Was this how the forgotten saw off one of their own? 

She clapped a hand over her mouth and turned away. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t go in there and see that he was gone. Then it would be real. It would be real and  _ her fault _ and she couldn’t go on, she just couldn’t—

A large group of children pushed past her, laughing and urging each other on. “Come on, come on!” “Wait for me!” “Aw, there’s so many people already!” 

Imelda watched them with a brow raised as the children followed the walkway to Héctor’s hut. They didn’t sound like they were running towards death. Far from it. They all wore wide grins as they tried to push through the people already gathered there. Imelda’s expression turned to a frown and she approached the hut while adjusting the basket on her arm, trying to arrange the jostled contents into something more presentable. As she got closer, she realized that the onlookers were all smiling, all silent, except for a brief laugh or exclamation. A few nudged each other with their elbows and nodded and swayed and tapped their feet. Because someone was singing. 

Imelda staggered to a stop, hand flying to her chest, trying to contain the flurry of emotion inside. That was Héctor. He was playing. Singing. Performing. 

He wasn’t gone. 

Imelda knew she received complaints when she shoved her way through the crowd, barely avoiding knocking someone into the water on the narrow path, but she could barely hear them. Everything but the song was simply a buzz. 

_ “Antenoche fui a tu casa _

_ Tres golpes le di al candado _

_ Tú no sirves para amores _

_ Tienes el sueño pesado…” _

She drew back the blanket entrance and stared into the hut. And there he was. Standing with his guitar in the center of a crowd, playing and singing and dancing as much as his limited space would allow. A few people clapped along as he picked up the pace of the song and twirled in place a few times, fingers flying across the strings.

Sandunga, by God, woman!

Imelda pressed her mouth tight shut, worried it would betray her with a sob of relief, or maybe of joy—she wasn’t sure which one ruled her right now. He was alright. More than alright. He was performing again, playing for the people he loved once more. Or, at least, until he happened to glance up and see her. The song stopped in a jarring of notes and he nearly dropped the guitar altogether. The skeleton audience all followed his gaze to her, stuck in the doorway. 

“It’s morning?” Héctor asked, grimacing already. She nodded. “I’m sorry. I got...caught up.” 

The panic she’d felt had faded, though, and Imelda couldn’t be angry. She knew how he was when the music decided to take him. She just shrugged a little and smiled primly, aware of the eyes on her. “Please finish your song.” 

Héctor stared back down at the guitar like it was a wild animal. “Ah, right...um...where was I?”

“From the top!” a child’s voice piped up, and Héctor laughed as he strummed a few chords again. 

“Aye, from the top,  sí ,  sí ! Clap along now, it’s better that way!” 

Imelda was used to this version of La Sandunga. Héctor had always liked playing traditional tunes with un upbeat pace, perfect for dancing. She tapped her foot along as everyone around her clapped out the rest of the song. Héctor finished with a flourish and swept his hat off his head with a bow. “Okay, okay you freeloaders, get out of here now, I have a guest!” 

“A lady guest,” someone added slyly, to general giggling. Héctor set his jaw and shooed them away. 

“Can’t a man see his wife in peace these days?  Vámonos, vámonos!”

“Play for us again!” someone cried out, and Imelda heard several of the children take up the cause. 

“Play for us again!”

“Yeah, play for us again, Cousin Héctor!” 

“Play, play, play!” 

Héctor kneeled down to address his primary heckler face to face. The child giggled at the scrutiny and even more when he reached to tug playfully at her pigtails. “I played all night for you heathens, now let me get some rest! I’ll play for you all again sometime. Promise.” 

“Cross your heart!” the child ordered, and he rolled his eyes good-naturedly before crossing an empty ribcage and shoving her along. “Cross my heart. Now go hassle someone else!” 

Imelda had retreated to one side of the door to let everyone travel past her. The news spread to the souls outside that Héctor was done playing for now with slight disappointment, and the crowd around his hut dispersed. Héctor helped an older woman to the door, and Imelda reached out to hold his guitar for safekeeping while he accompanied the woman back to the main path, thanking her individually for each croaked compliment. “I’ll play for everyone again soon,” he assured her, and turned back to Imelda alone in the hut with a sheepish smile. He rubbed the back of his head as he sauntered back to the hut and took back the guitar. “Ah...sorry about that. One of the kids heard me playing last night and one thing led to another…I didn’t realize how much time had passed, I’m sorry you had to find your way here alone, I hope it wasn’t any trouble...” 

Imelda fiddled with her basket and tried to bite back on her smile. “It’s alright. I found my way.”

Héctor pulled the box for the guitar out of the corner and nestled the instrument safely in the straw. “Rude of me to keep a lady waiting.” He dusted his hands and turned back to her with a grin. “So, what do you planned for today? Torturing my clothes some more?” 

Imelda rolled her eyes at that one. He looked much better now, with trousers patched up, the spare sleeve of his ripped up jacket completely removed to make a vest, and length of rope he’d been using around his hips replaced with a simple belt. She’d given up on convincing him to get the broken bones set properly. Not worth it, not with my time, he’d replied, and she’d lead the conversation elsewhere so they wouldn’t remain on that awful truth. Now, she set her basket down and gestured to the suspenders he’d left dangling. “We agreed you’d keep them on.” 

Héctor made a face but removed his vest so he could slip the suspenders up onto his shoulders once more. “You  _ told _ me to leave them on. I hardly think that counts as agreeing.” 

“You look more handsome with them up,” she countered cooly.

“I’m devastatingly handsome at all times,” he replied with a straight face and put his vest back on, straightened his bandana, and spread his arms for inspection. “Eh?” 

Imelda slapped a hand over her eyes, still fighting that smile. “Devastating. Now, sit down so I can tell you about the day Victoria was born. Julio was even more of a mess than you were, though I can barely believe I’m saying it…” 

It didn’t take long into the story for Imelda to realize they had guests. Tiny fingers were wrapped around the entrance to the hut, and occasionally she heard a child giggling. But Héctor was listening raptly to her account of Victoria’s birth so Imelda just shook her head and carried on. She wasn’t even sure he was aware of their little intruders, facing away from the door as he was. She slowly began to unpack her basket and set everything out across the floor as she wrapped up the story.

“Now, Elena’s birth was completely different, but enough of that. Who would like lunch?” She pointed over to the door and beckoned with her finger. Slowly, the group of children crept into the doorway, some looking chastised at being caught, some curious, some outright excited. “Would you like something to eat?” Imelda prompted again, and the little girl with the pigtails turned to Héctor with wide eyes. 

“Can we, Cousin Héctor?” 

He spun in place and scrutinized the children playfully. “Hmm, do we allow trespassers to eat around here, Imelda?” 

She stroked her chin thoughtfully. “You think they should be punished first?” 

“Oh definitely.” He stood and stretched his arms above his head. “But I guess first I have to... _ catch them _ !” 

The children all screamed with delight and made a break for it as Héctor dove in their direction. Four of them ran outside onto the walkway, shrieking when Héctor followed and caught them up one by one in his arms. The last one, the little girl with pigtails, made a tactful decision to run further into the hut and hide behind Imelda. Imelda peered over her shoulder at the child, who held a finger to her lips. Imelda nodded and copied the gesture before taking a glazed roll and handing it to her. The child’s face broke into delight and she settled back to back with Imelda as she began to eat. Imelda ducked her head to see the scene outside more clearly, even with the blanket hanging in the way. Héctor seemed to have captured two of the children, but the remaining duo were quick, darting in and around his legs and laughing. Suddenly, they both jumped and grabbed a hold of a leg apiece, yelling their conquest, and the momentum sent Héctor staggering backwards into the water. Imelda covered her mouth at the almighty splash and generalized cries of delight. The children clambered out of the water first and ran for the hut. “We beat him! We beat Cousin Héctor!” “Where’s the food?” “Can we have food now?” They stared at Imelda with hopeful smiles, soaking wet and dripping onto the floorboards. Imelda laughed at the sight and handed each a roll. 

“Congratulations on your victory,” she told them, and the children collapsed into sitting position where they stood, chomping down on their lunch. 

There was a wet squelch from outside, and then Héctor pushed the blanket aside to enter the hut. His hat was so sodden it hid half his face from view, and his clothes seemed to have dragged half the river along with them. He lifted the brim of his hat to study the children, who shuffled closer to Imelda. Apparently she’d been deemed the safe haven for this game. He looked at Imelda with a forlorn gaze. “Do I get food too?” 

She tapped her mouth with a finger. “Hmm, what do you think, children?” 

“Nah!” they chorused, and giggled. Imelda shrugged helplessly. 

“You heard them.” 

Héctor set his hands on his hips and stared at the children incredulously. “After all that music I played for you, and I can’t even eat in my own home?” 

The children looked around at each other until finally the little girl at Imelda’s back stood and offered the rest of her bun over Imelda’s shoulder. “Here you go, Cousin Héctor. Sorry it’s mostly ated already.” 

“Gracias Emilia.” Héctor kneeled and reached out, water dripping from him onto Imelda. He closed Emilia’s hand back around the bun. “But why don’t you finish it? I’ll steal directly from the source.” His fingers sought out the basket and stole an orange from within. “See?” 

Emilia nodded seriously and returned to her place at Imelda’s back. Héctor grimaced when he saw he was dripping on Imelda’s dress and made a hasty retreat to the other side of the hut. “Maybe I’ll sit out in the sun a bit, dry off.” 

Imelda smiled and nodded a little. “A good idea.” He grinned, saluted, and went back out into the daylight, leaving Imelda surrounded by the children. She looked around, made sure they were all content, and then took an orange for herself. She hadn’t packed lunch for seven, so hopefully they would be content with what she had. She peeled the orange and wordlessly passed the pieces around to muffled thanks. 

Emilia finished first, and stood so she could drape her arms over Imelda’s shoulder. “Are you new?”

Imelda shook her head. “No, I’ve been dead a while.” She studied the yellow tinge of the little girl’s bones. How could anyone be forgetting this child? It seemed criminal. Her clothes seemed new too, jeans instead of a skirt, and a t-shirt most certainly made in a factory and not by hand. Why were children in Shantytown at all? If they had to die so early, at least they should be properly taken care of in the afterlife. 

And honestly? Why stop at children? Why did Shantytown exist at all? Why were those of them most in pain shoved out over the water to quietly disappear? There should be homes for those who had nothing, care for those who needed it, donations from ofrendas given to those who no longer received any of their own. It was wrong, so very wrong, and Imelda’s smile melted away the more she studied Emilia. This was why the residents of the Land of the Dead so wanted to forget Shantytown, to pretend it wasn’t there. Partly because the idea of the final death was frightening, but mostly because they wanted to forget how terribly they themselves neglected the forgotten, to try to ignore the fact that one day, they surely too would begin to fade, and go to disappear out upon the water where no one would care. 

Imelda handed Emilia another orange slice. “Do you have a  mamá out here? Or a pápa?” 

The girl stuffed the orange slice into her mouth and shook her head. “But everyone takes care of me.” 

Imelda frowned and rooted in her basket for another bun to feed her. Emilia took the offering and retreated to her former position, back to back with Imelda. The other children wordlessly held out their hands for more. 

Boisterous as they had been before, while eating each child was very quiet, chewing with care. Probably because they didn’t get to eat often, Imelda reflected, and certainly not something as sweet as a glazed bun. She would have to bring more next time, ask Héctor to tell the children they could come by each day she was there for something to eat. And to tell all their friends too, so all the young ones stuck out in Shantytown could have a meal. She could afford the food. It would be worth it. 

Eventually, Héctor must have deemed himself dry enough to come back inside. He leaned on the wall near the door and watched the children eat, eyes soft and mouth turned up in a fond smile. He’d always been so good with children. No wonder they all loved their Cousin Héctor. He waved when Imelda caught his eye, but other than that he seemed as content to watch as she was. 

Eventually, the children sucked the last bits of sugar from their fingers and began to get restless. One of the little boys stuck his head into the basket, probing for more. Imelda tutted and pulled him out. “I’ll bring more next time. Be patient.” 

He nodded as she set his feet back on the floor. Another little boy rocked backwards until he was splayed across the floor, staring at her. “What’s your name?” 

“It’s Imelda.” 

“Imeldaaaaa,” the children all chorused, looking as one towards Héctor with devilish grins. He scoffed and moved across the hut. 

“Okay, okay, out of here, savages, go on, get, get!” He prodded them upright and sent them wheeling off towards the door. Emilia turned to wave enthusiastically at Imelda before ducking out past the blanket into the outside. Héctor checked to make sure they were actually gone before sitting near the open wall with a great sigh. “Little devils.” 

“They’re very sweet,” Imelda said, packing up her basket with all the scraps the children had left behind. “I’ll bring food for them next time, too. Make sure they know, okay?” 

Héctor raised a brow but didn’t comment but for a slight nod. 

Imelda folded the cloth over her basket, everything set to rights. “Why were they teasing you about my name?” 

His expression turned to a cringe and he was suddenly very interested in the water. “Ah...well, they’re just taking after their other cousins, that’s all.” 

“Meaning?” 

He gave her a pained expression but she was curious now. “Héctor, what do you mean?” 

He coughed and fiddled with his scarf, still wet from his visit into the river. “People might be a little...curious about you.” 

“Curious?” 

He grimaced and rubbed at his forehead. “Well, you know, a visitor from the city coming to see  _ me _ of all people, every other day for three months now...it hasn’t gone unnoticed. And tongues were wagging already because out here all people have time for is chatter and...well, to prevent your reputation from being...sullied…” He chose each word with intense care. “I told them that you are my wife. And now they’re all being very unprofessional about it.” He crossed his arms and sighed dramatically. “Of course it’s all in fun but still very annoying! And the kids are in on it too now so you bet by the time I walk you to shore everybody will say hello to you by name.” 

Imelda snorted at his pouting expression. “It can’t be that bad.” 

He gave her a withering look. “Imelda, I’ve lived out here in Shantytown for over seventy years. Every single person here knows who I am. Finding out that Cousin Héctor has a beautiful, respectable woman for a wife? That’s the best material they’ve had in ages, and these comedians, Imelda? Not subtle!” He groaned and collapsed against the wall. After a moment he pulled his askew hat down to cover his face completely. “It’s just like when the twins would tease us except there’s several hundred of them and their big sister isn’t around to order them home.” 

“Oh, poor you.” Imelda reached out to jostle his good leg. “Do you need me to stick around to order all of them home too?”

Héctor waved one hand vaguely through the air. “Possibly. They all want me to bring you to a party sometime.” 

It was enough to bring Imelda up short. “A party? Why?” 

The hand dropped to drag the hat from Héctor’s face. “Because we party for whatever reason we can, of course!” He grinned, mood flipping in an instant. “Don’t you remember how to dance?” 

Imelda looked pointedly away and folded her hands in her lap. “It wouldn’t be proper.” 

“Why not? You’re my wife, after all.” 

“Not that.” Imelda studied the ripple of the river water. “Would the people here really... _ want _ someone like me to celebrate with them?” 

Héctor was silent for a moment and she refused to look at him. Finally he asked, “Why wouldn’t they?” 

Imelda huffed and gestured down at herself. Her clean clothes. Her white bones. “I’m not being forgotten, Héctor. But I live in the city and ignore all of you living out here. How can you not hate me—hate all of us who are remembered—for doing that?”

He tossed his hat aside and shuffled towards her across the floor. “Imelda, that’s just the way things are. Most everyone here was remembered once too. They won’t turn you away. I told you that they want to meet you!” 

She bit at her lower lip. “Even after what I’ve done to you?” 

He went quiet again and then said in a low whisper, “I haven’t shared the details of my life with anyone. They know nothing of what has happened between us, except for the fact you’ve been visiting my house every other day for three months.” His finger lifted her chin and forced her gaze around to him. He smiled and smoothed the fingers of his other hand across her cheekbone. “Why don’t we go to a party? A real one, not like those uppity fancy parties Ernesto held. Like when the mariachi would play and we could dance around town square, before we were married. Remember that?” She nodded and his smile twisted painfully sweet as his fingers brushed into her hair. “Those were good parties, eh?” 

She shut her eyes. “Yes, they were good parties.” A hundred years ago. “But we’re not young anymore, Héctor. Or at least, I’m not. Old women don’t belong at parties.” She turned away before his hand could find the lines of white in her hair. 

She heard his fingers drum against the floor. Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat. “Imelda, you’re only a year older than me. That’s really—”

Her eyes snapped back open. “That’s not what I mean!” She gestured to him, then to herself. “Look at you! You’re so young! You’ve been young for a century. Whereas I could pass as your mother! Or grandmother!” 

Héctor scoffed and held out his bad arm for her to see. He traced the yellowing bone, drew a finger up to the bandages holding the break together. “Young? Anyone who lives here knows with one glance that I’m about to shuffle on. You, on the other hand, look perfect and healthy. In life, Imelda, you might have held a year on me, but here I hold decades on you.” He clasped his hand over the break and drew his arm back. Imelda glanced down at her own arm, clean and bright and unmarred, attached firmly to the bones around it by the power of memories. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about,” Héctor muttered, drawing further into himself. “I walk you around here and people look at you and think how beautiful you are. If I walked with you up there—” He jerked his head in the general direction of the city. “—they would think you insane.” 

That strange self-pity again. She had no time for it. Imelda reached out and yanked on his bandana. “Hardly. You look quite presentable. And you’re...charming. It’s why everyone loves you here. It’s why people would love you up there as well. No one would care how long you’ve been here.” 

Their eyes met. Imelda raised her brows and, slowly, Héctor nodded. She loosened her grip on his bandana so he could sit upright once more. He dusted the front of his vest and hummed. “So that’s a yes to a party then?” He held up a hand to forestall her protest. “If I’m not allowed to feel old, neither are you. And it would be fun to get a last dance from you.” He smiled brightly. 

Imelda hand went to the white in her hair this time. “I...I don’t know.” 

The smile drooped for a few seconds before a grin was back on his face. “Ay, well, wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable. It’s no problem.” He leapt to his feet and wandered over to his guitar. He picked it up from the box and plucked a few notes as he began to pace the floor. “They’re never going to leave me be after this. Knowing I’m playing again.”

Imelda lowered her hand and settled her skirts more comfortably. “They love you. And at least they’re not reporters. Or government. You won’t believe the mess we had right after Día de Los Muertos . People everywhere asking who you were, where you were, was it true that  _ this _ , was it true that  _ that _ . I was the only one who could leave the house without getting accosted.” She watched his fingers move along the strings. “Everyone is very eager to meet the real genius behind Ernesto de la Cruz.” 

Héctor cringed and his chords jarred. “Ehhh...I think not. Why do people love those silly songs so much anyway?” 

Imelda shrugged. “They are catchy, I admit.”

He just scoffed. “They weren’t my best work. I had a few ideas that I liked, that could have made for  _ real  _ music, but Ernesto killed me before I could write them down.” He stopped his pacing and smirked. “His loss.” 

“No need to be smug about being murdered.”

“I’m not smug, I’m just saying that if people are looking for a genius, they won’t find one.” He started up his pacing again and played a piece of melody she didn’t recognize. “If they actually found me, they’d be very disappointed.” 

No they wouldn’t, Imelda wanted to argue. They’d be enthralled. A forgotten soul who desperately wants to see his daughter one last time, who challenges the marigold bridge every year to fail again and again, who wrote Ernesto’s greatest hits and was murdered for it, witty and tricky with a devious grin and a thousand tricks up his sleeve? The press would go nuts. What a tragic figure, yet irresistibly roguish.

And she’d be the bad guy who tore him away from the family photo. As responsible for his final death as Ernesto had been for the first. 

She watched him experiment with his unknown song, tapping his foot in time, making a disgusted face each time he played a note he didn’t like, getting as absorbed in the process as he always had. 

This morning, for a few awful moments, she’d thought she’d lost him forever. But he was still miraculously here. But not for much longer. Would she regret it, later, for not taking every opportunity he offered? For not taking the opportunity of one last dance? 

“Héctor?” she asked at last, and then, in a louder voice, “Héctor!” 

“Hmm?” He glanced up. 

Imelda’s hands fiddled with her shoes. “I’ll go to a party with you.” 

His face lit up and then darkened in the space of a second. “I thought we were too old.” 

“ _ I’m _ too old, but one night can’t hurt.” She could feel his eyes on her, studying her face, her hands, the tense set of her shoulders. 

“Imelda, it’s really not—”

“I want to go.” She looked him right in the eye and nodded firmly. “I want to meet your...your family out here. I want to dance with you again. So you had better show me a good time.” 

His face fell into a relieved sort of smile. “The best time. The very best.” And then he was drawn back into the music. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See you next Friday! Time for a dance or two~


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! Another Friday, another update. Thank you so much for kudos/comments/reads! It's awesome receiving so much support~

It was another three weeks, however, before Héctor told her that the next time she came, she had better be ready for dancing. It was the middle of lunch, and the number of children who came by to eat each day she was there had doubled. At his words, they all cried out with delight and a few of them scrambled to their feet to link arms and skip around the confined area of the hut. Emilia leaned up against Imelda’s back—her usual spot—and called above the din: “Cousin Héctor, you said you’d dance with me! You said, you said!” 

Héctor leaned over and tweaked one of her pigtails. “Of course. I save a dance for all my girls.” 

“And you gotta play the music,” Emilia added with an authoritative nod. “You play better than Cousin Gio.”

“Oh ho ho, I’m gonna tell Cousin Gio you said that!” He spun around and marched towards the door while Emilia squeaked and raced after him. She dove and grabbed his leg and Héctor whisked her up into the air with a laugh. “How do I play and dance at the same time? You ask too much of me, mija.” 

Imelda bit down on her smile and grabbed the jacket of one of the dancing boys before he made himself sick with twirling. He stopped and grinned at her with a gap-toothed smile. “Will you dance with me?” 

The memory of her first dance with Héctor washed over her. His slight smile and offered hand. The way her dress had swished around her legs. The soft sound of his voice as he continued the song after the mariachi were done, just to have a few more minutes as they swayed in each other’s arms. “Oh, I suppose,” Imelda heard herself say, and then blinked and focused on the child once more. It was him standing there, not a young and hopeful musician. “Of course. Of course I have a dance for you! Now finish your food before someone tramples all over it.” He nodded and scurried off to obey. Héctor set Emilia back on the ground and winked at Imelda when he caught her eye. 

“Maybe I’ll even have time for a dance with my wife, if some little rascal doesn’t steal her away from me completely.” 

Imelda bit back a grin as she replied airily, “Don’t count on it.” 

After they’d all eaten, Héctor shooed the children outside. “Go wreak havoc somewhere else.” He stood at the doorway and watched them all leave until they were safely on the main path again. Then he let the blanket fall and turned to Imelda with exaggerated exhaustion. “Well!” 

Imelda simply began packing up her basket. “Well what?” 

“I never expected us to adopt eleven kids,” he explained, walking to the open wall. He eased himself down into sitting position and let one leg dangle into the water. “They’re going to follow you home one day, you know that, right?” 

Imelda took a moment to entertain the idea. Oh, how her family would be surprised by all these laughing yelling juggernauts racing around at knee height. It would liven the workshop up a bit, that’s for sure. “It might be fun.” 

Héctor gave her a withering look. “They have you wrapped around their little fingers.” 

She folded the blanket over her basket with precise motions and perfect corners. “Well, I’ve always had a weakness for grubby little rascals.” 

He went silent for a moment and then choked out, “I wasn’t ever grubby!” 

“You and Ernesto were always getting into  _ something _ . Something which usually involved a complete mess.”  

He paused, mouth open for a retort, finger in the air. And then he deflated and crossed his arms. “Okay, but to be fair, most of those ideas were Ernesto’s.” 

“Sure, sure…” Imelda placed her basket aside and slid across the floor to join him at the water. “So, what do I need to bring for this party?” 

Héctor perked up immediately. “Just yourself. And some good dancing shoes.” He raised his one leg from the water to knock his bare feet together. “And it might go late, so maybe warn your family. So they don’t send the cat monster.” 

“Her name is Pepita.” 

“Pepita the cat monster.” 

“I could shove you into the water, if you like.” 

He grinned. “I’d take you with me.”

“You would no—” He would. He absolutely would, judging by the gleam in his eye. He’d done it before, too, back when they were courting. No, not courting at that point. She’d agreed to marry him. They’d been sitting down by the river when a torrential downpour caught them by surprise. Maybe it wouldn’t have so much of a surprise if Héctor hadn’t been wrapped up talking about the wonderful house they could have, what a perfect life he was determined to give her, and if Imelda hadn’t been busy just watching his face, love fluttering in her stomach like a flight of birds. The rain had gone from nonexistent to a flood within a minute, instantly soaking them. Héctor had made to move back towards town, but the last few hours had been such a perfect moment; Imelda refused to let them end. She had snatched his hand before he could escape and dragged him back towards her. 

_ “Dance with me!” _

_ “What, now?”  _

_ “Haven’t you ever danced in the rain?”  _

She had, when she was younger and her parents didn’t catch her before she slipped outside. Twirled amongst the raindrops with her face tilted up to taste them as rivulets of water trickled down her face, soaked her dress, splashed up around her feet as the puddles accumulated. 

It was the same as she’d danced with him, both laughing until their voices gave out into wheezing, slippery hands catching at each other’s shoulders, waists, clutching at clothing as they spun around and pressed close together. The grass had gone soggy beneath their shoes, warm summer rain enveloping them in their own little world. He’d kissed her, wet lips against her cheek, and she’d slid her head around to catch his lips, thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him and kissed him again, completely inappropriate but no one could touch them out there, safe in the storm.

The raindrops had shimmered across the surface of the river. It was the lazy bend, where the local children came to swim in the summer. Héctor had slipped on a patch of mud and gone teetering to the bank with arms pinwheeling, and Imelda held out a hand to push him the rest of the way. They couldn’t get any wetter, after all. But he’d just grabbed her hand and yanked her after him. They’d both emerged sputtering, feet easily touching bottom, and then it had just made sense for her to pull Héctor close and continue her kisses. His lips, his cheek, his forehead, the tip of his nose, and he’d started singing a song she could not make out over her own heavy breathing, until finally Ernesto came calling for them, berating Héctor as he pulled him out of the river that he wouldn’t be able to play if he died of pneumonia. 

Imelda dragged herself out of the memory and stared across at where Héctor was now drawing a lazy finger through the water. Did he remember their dance in the rain? Had he kept those precious moments safe for the past hundred years?  

A dance in the rain now would be slippery bone and kisses all teeth. Nothing like it had been before. The idea of it hurt, perhaps in the same place she’d kept those memories jarred. They could have had decades more of dances, of rainstorms, of warm kisses soft with life. But Héctor had left, and Ernesto had killed him. They’d been robbed of so much. Too much. How was any of this fair? 

But she could take this dance across the wooden walkways of Shantytown and keep the memory safe, so maybe she could take it back out again after Héctor was gone and carefully not cry, because she wouldn’t have the right. But she could hurt, and know she deserved that fully. 

She needed to think of something else. 

“How are there children among the forgotten?” she asked. “Don’t they have parents who remember them?” 

Héctor kept doodling across the surface of the river as he shrugged. “Various ways. Some were orphaned and got forgotten by the orphanages that took them in. Some come from...bad situations and never have a photo put up at all, and their families don’t care to pass on their stories. Some had parents once, who disappeared before they have. Mostly when the whole family died in some accident. Children who die tragically get remembered longer than adults.” He scooped some water up in his hand and watched it drain away through his bones. “Some of them don’t want to talk about it, so we leave them be. Emilia is like that.” 

Imelda’s memory of a stomach flipped. She didn’t even want to consider what story Emilia could be hiding. “But they can’t have come to live here right away! After registration wouldn’t they get...put somewhere?”

Héctor took another scoop of water. “I think there are foster programs these days and I’m sure there are kids living up there very happy.” He carefully watched all the water drain away. “But when they start to show signs of being forgotten, I think some make their own decision to come out here where they know the other forgotten are, and the family says goodbye. It’s very hard to watch a kid being forgotten.” He sighed and drew his hand to his chest, eyes sliding shut. “I’ve seen too many people—friends and cousins and children—slowly fade away from me with nothing I could do. Their bones get duller and they move slower. They don’t laugh as often, and then not at all. It takes ten jokes to get them to smile. Even when someone manages to rustle up some food, they don’t feel like eating it. The adults will take the drink though.” He laughed at that, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “Yeah, they’ll take the drink. And then before you know it, that gold light is there, and they can’t even move anymore, just wait until it takes them completely and hope that moment is soon.” He opened his eyes and looked over to her. “I couldn’t let that be me in your house, for your family. I might not know them all, but I can love them enough to not put them through that.”

Imelda wasn’t sure what she could possibly say to that. He had called himself selfish when he left, selfish for not wanting to be seen that way, but who was he really sparing? 

How long before he decided to spare her? 

He waved a dismissive hand and straightened up with a long breath out. “But let’s talk about something else. The party! Let’s talk about that, sí? Should I borrow a suit, like a proper gentleman?” 

She let the abrupt change of subject go. “Your complete inability to be a proper gentleman is one of your best qualities. And just where would you borrow a suit? From Frida Kahlo?”

“I have my sources,” he replied mysteriously. “And a ballgown for you, chérie?” 

“For a drunken party out in Shantytown?” 

Héctor grinned. “Hey, it won’t be drunken until at least halfway through.”

She rolled her eyes and reached out to shove his shoulder. “I think I can provide my own clothes, gracias.” 

His grin faded into a content smile. “I’ll look forward to it.” 

The returning smile back went so easily to her face. “Yes. I guess...I will too.”

 

* * *

 

She did  _ not _ . Imelda was practically useless the next day, to the point she thought maybe she ought to just hide in her room and disappear completely. The idea of actually going to a Shantytown party had started to seem daunting as soon as she let go of Héctor’s hand to begin her walk home through the city, and her nerves only got worse and worse. Pacing her room, she could only think how much his presence would soothe her right now. How he would tell her to slow down, to not worry so much. Remind her she had several children she’d promised a dance to and she couldn’t disappoint them now, eh?

Right. The children. The memory of the children calmed her enough so she could at least be around her family while maintaining a calm facade, though she knew her brothers were onto her. 

“You seem anxious,” Felipe said as they cleared the dinner table. “After your constitutional walk yesterday,” Óscar continued. “Or whatever it is you are doing,” Felipe finished, and a teasing grin spread across both their faces. 

“It’s nothing,” Imelda insisted, and retreated into the kitchen with the dishes before they could prod anymore. 

She ended up on the roof with Pepita for much of the night, snuggled into the alebrije’s soft belly fur. Pepita purred happily as Imelda stroked her gently. Pepita never pried. Pepita minded her own business perfectly until Imelda needed her. Some days she needed to replace her brothers with Pepita. “I can’t remember the last time I was at party,” she confessed, tucked away beneath one great wing. “And I haven’t really danced since Héctor and I…” Her hands tightened in the soft green fur. “Well, of course I’m nervous! A party is all music and dancing and I’m very much unacquainted with both!” 

Pepita craned her head back to study Imelda beneath her wing and went, “Prrrlt.” 

Imelda reached out and patted her muzzle, and then scratched beneath her chin. “But,” she whispered, “When he’s gone, I will be glad to have danced again.”

In her bedroom as dawn arrived, she pulled out the dress she had bought and then stowed away immediately. Still far too youthful, but lighter material than her usual attire, which would make it easier to move in, and she wouldn’t mind if it accidentally got stained or ripped. Imelda folded it up and tucked it into her basket along with her usual knife and cloth. She could see how she felt about it once she was safely in Héctor’s hut. She laced her feet into comfortable dancing shoes and snuck out of the house into the early morn. 

There were several upscale bakeries near the Rivera home. While food left as an offering on an ofrenda was more flavorful and valued, it was also rare, and seldom for sale. People who had dealt in food in their lives, therefore, had a market for cheaper items made in the Land of the Dead that may not be as delectable, but still enjoyable for those who felt like eating. Imelda had a friendly relationship with many of the bakeries nearby to keep her kitchen stocked and, as of the last few months, to buy lunch to bring with her to Héctor and the children. This particular morning, she bought rolls and cheese before heading off. About halfway between home and Shantytown was a little grocer she’d discovered on her many back-and-forths. Imelda still wasn’t sure about the details on how fresh produce—or any animal product actually—was provided outside of offerings, but the milk was a good price and the owner brought out a small basket of perfect red tomatoes just in stock that she couldn’t say no to. Her basket was significantly heavier when she made it to the riverbank. 

Héctor was waiting for her. Ever since his one slip-up, he’d been very diligent about it, even with people wheedling for one song, just one more song. Imelda was sure he’d also made a rule about not coming and asking him to play while she was there visiting, which the children obviously didn’t heed, but Imelda was thankful she didn’t have to share her time with Héctor with the rest of Shantytown as well. They still had him every other day she wasn’t there. Wasn’t that enough? 

Héctor tipped his hat and smiled as he reached out a hand for her to take, and something invisible in her ribcage twisted. What was she doing yesterday at this time? Doing inventory, probably. What a silly thing to spend her day on, when she could be here instead. Maybe every other day wasn’t enough at all. 

They didn’t exchange words of greeting. Imelda simply took Héctor’s hand and allowed him to lead her onto the walkway. There were very few people out and about, but as Héctor was helping her down a staircase, a young man a little ways out further onto the river called out and waved. “Héctor! Imelda! Seeing you tonight?” 

“Ay, you know it!” Héctor replied, and put a hand on Imelda’s waist to steady her. He met her eyes with a grin. “They’re excited to meet you,” he said. 

“They know my name?” 

“Well, you did tell the kids. Most efficient little gossip-spreaders there are.” 

Imelda frowned. She wasn’t sure how she felt about having all those new people knowing her name when she knew nothing about them at all. Héctor studied her for a moment before releasing her waist and patting her shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s friendly out here.” He turned to keep going and then muttered, “Unlike meeting your parents.” 

Imelda opened her mouth immediately to argue back, but no words came to mind. Héctor meeting her parents  _ had _ been a disaster, and not of his doing. As much as she’d loved her parents, loving Héctor as well had cast her into an entirely different world than the one she’d grown up in. One that made her not just headstrong but also independent, strong on top of fearless. Everything she would need to be once he left. 

Imelda had never had a photo of her parents. She’d never met them again in the Land of the Dead. What she knew was that her brothers were the ones to step in and help her when she needed it, who loved Héctor and Coco as much as she did and mourned the one while helping raise the other, mourned Héctor’s loss in a way Imelda was far too angry to ever do. 

“I bet Óscar and Felipe would have liked to come, if we invited them,” Imelda said, watching her footing where the walkway was rotting apart on one side. “They always had so much fun when you and Ernesto would play with them.” 

Héctor looked back over his shoulder with wide eyes, but smiled after a minute. “They were good boys. Grew up like matchsticks. Quieter now than I remember.”

“That’s hardly difficult. And you were always riling them up too.” 

Héctor shrugged and squeezed her hand once before continuing on. “They were fun to rile.” Imelda raised a brow and studied him as they kept walking. He seemed...subdued this morning. Was she just depressing him by talking about the twins? No, he’d been quiet the whole way. Was he regretting his decision to take her to a dance? 

“Imelda, Imelda!” “Cousin Héctor!” The silence was broken in an instant by a chorus of high voices, and their usual mob of children came pouring out from behind various hiding places. Emilia threw her arms around Imelda, while two of the most troublesome boys latched onto Héctor’s legs. Several grubby hands reached for the food in Imelda’s basket and she raised it above her head where none of them could touch it. 

“An ambush!” Héctor called out in dismay, and teetered around with the boys clinging to his legs laughing maniacally. 

“Don’t fall in the water!” Imelda warned, and Héctor stopped to give her a little salute and a wink before starting up the dramatics again. 

“Oh no, I’m getting...very heavy…” 

“Me too, Cousin Héctor, I want to ride too!” 

“Me, me!” 

Imelda shook her head and swallowed a smile. She could see Héctor’s hut from here. The children could steal him away for a few minutes. She kept the basket held high and Emilia kept her hands clutched in Imelda’s skirt, trailing behind her by a few steps the whole way until Imelda was pushing aside the blanket and letting them both inside the shack. Imelda glanced back to where Héctor was now flat on the boards, swamped with giggling and shrieking children who were trying to keep him pinned down. He was going to break another bone one of these days. 

Emilia was at the basket the moment Imelda put it down. “Don’t eat anything,” Imelda warned her. 

“I’m just looking,” Emilia mumbled, pawing through the tomatoes and milk bottles. She looked vaguely disappointed at the cheese. “No sweet buns?” 

“I can’t bring bring glazed rolls everytime,” Imelda replied sternly, and Emilia jutted out her bottom lip before pushing aside the food and discovering the lilac fabric of the dress. 

“Ah! Pretty!” 

Imelda plucked her away from the basket immediately and held Emilia up in front of her. “You are nosy.” Emilia just laughed until Imelda put her down. They played clapping games—Imelda sharing the ones she knew and Emilia doing the same—until finally there came the patter of many little bony feet and the rush of children pushed through the doorway into the hut. One of them seemed to have stolen Héctor’s hat. Imelda pulled her basket into her lap and began to dole out food accordingly. The two little boys who had first attacked Héctor’s legs were suspiciously demure. “Did Cousin Héctor fall in the river?” Imelda demanded, holding their lunch way up high where they couldn’t reach. They looked up at their food with dismay before shaking their heads desperately. 

“He...um...said he needs to...collect himself,” one told her in a whisper, and crowed triumph when she lowered their lunches. 

Collect himself? Imelda set the basket near Emilia. “Keep this safe?” she asked, and Emilia nodded, mouth full. Imelda stood and made her way back out into the sun, onto the boardwalk. Héctor was standing now, at least, wandering the path in circles. Imelda glanced down into the water. Ah. 

“Were you missing this?” she called, and met Héctor halfway with his arm. He grinned sheepishly. 

“Did notice my left side seemed a little lighter than usual.” He held out his right hand but Imelda batted it away, choosing instead to reattach the bone herself. When her own bones were torn apart, which was rare but still possible, the force of memories snapped things back into place within seconds. Héctor’s arm, on the other hand, was nearly physically shoved into place before she felt the natural force take hold and shift it just right to fit. “It’s alright,” Héctor told her after one glance at her face. “I always find myself eventually. And it comes in handy.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “Actually, I think I’ve become sturdier recently! I tried visiting a friend of mine the other day—I had to return some costumes—and nearly brained myself when I tried to launch my hand up and it came right back…” He trailed off when she failed to smile. “Imelda, I’m okay.” 

She patted his arm and nodded quickly. “Yes, you are. Come eat.” 

The children were still munching quietly when they got there. Imelda grabbed her basket and began slicing tomatoes in half to pass around. She was wary of the dress in her basket with each move, giving out tomatoes and milk bottles to share until she’d worked her way back to Héctor. She smiled softly at him and folded her cloth over the basket and remaining food. It was still early—they could eat once the children were gone and they had some peace. He was content to stand beside her for a time, until the fastest eaters were licking off their fingers and searching for some trouble to get into. Then he crossed the room with four strides of his long legs and pulled out his guitar from the box. The atmosphere in the hut immediately changed to rapt attention as he perched on the edge of the box and began fiddling with the instrument. “I have to make sure it’s in tune,” he explained, and let the children hear as he pluck-pluck-plucked at a string and then adjusted the corresponding peg. “Do you think that sounds right yet? Here, listen again…”

He played a couple of requested tunes, extremely quietly so no one outside would hear and come harass him. The lyrics were whispered between him and the children, who were excellent at the covert affair except for some fits of giggles when Héctor flubbed a chord or mixed up the words. Finally he shooed them out of the hut. “Go scrub up, all of you! You want to dance with me and Imelda, right? That means baths!”

They all gave out a small cry of dismay, but Imelda just nodded when they looked her way for salvation. “Have to be clean for parties. Cousin Héctor and I will wash up too, it’s fair.”

General sighs of exasperation were followed by the trooping of feet out through the front door. Héctor held the sheet aside for them and snatched his hat back from the head of the little boy as he passed by. Once they were alone, Héctor let the sheet fall and turned to Imelda with a shy grin. He hoisted the guitar a little higher. “Any requests?” 

Imelda shook her head and went to sit by the water. She pulled her basket across the floor to her and took out her own share of food. The sight of the dress tucked away made her spine tingle. She still wasn’t sure about it. “I liked that song you were working on the other day, but shouldn’t you save yourself for tonight?” 

“You liked that?” He trotted across the room to squat near her, all eager eyes and hopeful smile. “You really did?” Imelda sighed good-naturedly and patted him on the cheek. 

“Yes, I liked it. I brought tomatoes. Try one?” 

She drew her hand away to reach into the basket, and he turned his face slightly into her palm as it slipped from his cheek to prolong the touch. The intimacy of the simple gesture was suddenly far, far greater than she had intended. She patted her family members on the cheek all the time, but the simple longing in his automatic response made another tingle run up her spine. But Héctor didn’t seem to understand the effect his action had on her. Maybe he didn’t even realize he had done it. He settled on the floor with guitar in his lap. “Aren’t I allergic to tomatoes?” 

Imelda flexed the fingers of her hand once or twice before getting ahold of herself. “You are not allergic to tomatoes.” She picked one out and offered it. He took it after a moment, giving the offending tomato possibly the most doubtful look a vegetable had ever received. 

“I thought I was allergic to tomatoes.”

“You’re allergic to almonds.”

“Ah, that’s the thing!” He nodded and bit into the tomato only to make a face seconds later. “I just hate tomatoes. Now I remember.” 

“Oh, don’t be a baby.” She plucked the tomato from his fingers and finished it herself. “Is it your turn or my turn to tell a story?” 

He crossed his legs and leaned forward. “You need to finish telling me about Elena and her street dog.” 

“Mmm.” She rummaged in her basket to get out the bread and cheese to split between them. “Of course. Where was I?” 

His hands beat an impatient rhythm on the floor. “The dinner party. She tried to sneak it into the dinner party.” 

Imelda smiled and ducked her head. “Yes. She tried to sneak it into the dinner party. Now, of course Coco was onto it as well, as she always had a penchant for encouraging trouble…” 

Héctor hung on her every word, like he always did whenever she told a story. Sometimes he asked for a reminder of a name, or a description of what someone looked like. Sometimes he closed his eyes and she knew he was putting all the pieces together, his visions of them along with the story and all the little details he’d pried from her: if they had a lisp or a stutter, their nervous habits, if they bit their lip or fiddled with their hair or blushed easily or laughed louder than they should. Things Imelda hadn’t even realized she remembered but seemed so important to him, so vital to completing the final picture in his head. She barely registered the sun disappearing until the water began to light up with bonfires. She whipped her head around to stare out across the river. And suddenly, a dance seemed that much more menacing. 

She jumped at the gentle touch to her hand, but of course it was only Héctor. “Nervous?” he asked. 

She shook her head. She wouldn’t let herself be spooked by the idea of a party. 

He grimaced and took his hand away. “Good. Because I am.” 

Imelda just barely prevented her eyes from darting to the dress in the basket. “Why would you be nervous?” 

He grinned and stood, stretching arms above his head. “I was scared to death the first time I asked you to dance. Since I’m already dead now, I guess I have to settle for nervous.”

She raised a brow. “It isn’t our first time dancing.”

Héctor lowered his arms and shrugged. “Well, it’s been quite a while since the last time.” He spun around and began to pace the hut, stiff-legged. He coughed and tugged his hat down lower over his face. “Let a man his nerves.” 

Imelda watched his progress as a smile spread across her face. “You’re blushing,” she said, almost in disbelief. 

Héctor sputtered and stopped where he stood, facing away from her. “Skeletons don’t blush,” he replied at last, and resumed pacing. 

“If skeletons were able to blush then you’d be blushing,” Imelda muttered to herself and laughed when he stopped short and pulled his hat down even lower. She felt her own nerves dissipate at the sight, and her fingers found the fabric of the dress. Slowly, she tugged it out of the basket and unfolded it across her lap. After a moment, Héctor quit hiding his face and wandered over to her.

“It’s your color,” he said at last. 

“You think?” Imelda stood and held the dress against her front. “It’s very...youthful.” 

Héctor reached out and fingered the ribbons she had sewn on herself along the hems. “It suits you.” 

Imelda glanced down at the lilac dress, lighter toned than her own, simpler in cut and in nature, with just a few ribbons inexpertly attached for decoration. It hit mid-calf, and the skirt was loose enough she knew a dance would send it up around her knees. So very, very young. “It’s too young,” she whispered, and began to fold it back up. “I shouldn’t have brought it.” 

Héctor saved the dress before she could toss it back in the basket. “You can try it on. Plenty of time if you change your mind.” He held the dress back up to her. “Won’t lose anything.” 

She sighed and crossed her arms. This was all very foolish. “Are you sure  _ you _ wouldn’t like to wear it? You did pull off Frida Kahlo’s clothing quite nicely.” 

He snorted and snapped a suspender. “Well, that was from years of practice. But I think I’m looking pretty good as myself these days, eh?” 

Imelda kept her arms crossed and glared at the dress. It hung innocently from Héctor’s hand. Finally she huffed and snatched it away. “Fine. I’ll try it on. No promises.” She lay the dress down so she could undo her own. Her necklace wouldn’t match with the simpler dress, and neither would her earrings. She undid the clasp of the necklace and set it in the basket. The earrings followed. She reached behind to untie her apron and let it loose. 

Héctor hummed and backed towards the entrance. “I’ll...um...give you some privacy.” 

She nodded and waited until he’d disappeared outside before undoing the buttons of her dress. The heavy fabric fell away and pooled around her feet, baring her completely. Over the years, she’d found any type of undergarment either unnecessary for a skeleton or too difficult to wear. Still, the sudden shock of cool air was both intimidating and exhilarating. Imelda glanced at the open wall, but the walkways she could see were too far away for anyone to see her. Carefully, she folded up her dress and apron and stepped into the lilac dress. It slithered up easily over her bones, and she was struck by how heavy her usual garb was compared to this. She twirled once, felt the skirt swish around her legs, and went to do up the buttons in the back. Except, of course, she hadn’t let out the bust enough, and her arms couldn’t reach round past the small of her back to do the buttons up to her neck. She twisted around a few moments before sighing and facing the door. “Héctor?” she called softly. She could see his silhouette through the blanket. 

“Can I come in?” he asked. 

“Please.” 

He ducked through the sheet and sucked in breath, looking her up and down. “It does suit you,” he said at last, trying to sound casual. Imelda bit at her bottom lip and turned slowly, letting him see the open back and her exposed spine. 

“Can you do me up?” 

Again, that intake of breath, and then his footsteps, light across the floorboards. She could have sworn his fingers were trembling when he stopped behind her and reached for the first button. 

“Are you blushing again?” she asked, as he moved up to the second fastening. 

“Skeletons don’t blush,” he muttered, and did up the third. His hands brushed against her spine, and a tingle much warmer than the earlier ones raced up it. Which was silly. He’d helped her get dressed and undressed plenty of times. It shouldn’t make her react like this now. 

Except that when she had asked him to do up her dresses once they were married, he took at least five minutes at it, taking the chance to sweep aside her hair and kiss her neck while mumbling endearments against her skin. He’d been even slower when releasing her from her dresses, kissing everywhere his fingers brushed, following his hands downwards until he was on his knees lavishing attention to wherever he could reach: kissing at her skirts, her hands, helping her shrug the dress off and following her lead back to his feet so she could kiss him properly and begin to divest him of his own clothing. 

It wasn’t for nothing she found herself pregnant with Coco so soon after the wedding. 

Nine buttons in all, right up to her nape. He fumbled with the seventh and put a button through the wrong hole, but righted himself immediately until his hands were fixing the collar of the dress and smoothing out the shoulders. Imelda glanced down at herself, and a hand strayed to the white in her hair. “So young, I don’t—what are you doing?” 

Héctor shushed her and continued unwinding the ribbons from her hair. “You know what I’m doing.” 

It was unusual for him to take charge, even in such a small way. Imelda stood completely still and silent while first the ribbons were undone, and then gentle fingers were combing her hair out of its bun, all the way down to the middle of her back. 

She hadn’t worn her hair loose since...since...since she was a teenager. Since she was courting Héctor. After Coco was born it made more sense to keep her hair out of reach of tugging baby hands, and then her hair had to be tucked away for making shoes. She was about to protest when she felt something land on her head. His straw hat. Héctor ducked around her until they were face to face. He smiled and took a lock of her hair in his hand, and then drew it up over her shoulder to frame her face. “A real Shantytown gal.” 

Now Imelda was the one who’d be blushing. She rushed over to the open wall and gazed at her reflection in the water, and distractedly fluffed her hair out so strands of it fell across her face and settled around her shoulders. The white streaks in her hair were hidden by the straw hat, and with the dress and the shoes she could pass as young again. As young as Héctor. She wasn’t sure the rest of her family would even recognize her like this until they could see her face up close. 

Slowly, Héctor approached her and stood beside her, staring into the water as well. “You look beautiful,” he said softly, and then rubbed the back of his head nervously. “Not that you...always...always beautiful…” 

She reached out and took his shoulder and turned him towards her. She fiddled with his handkerchief and did up the buttons of his vest. “And you look handsome,” she told him firmly, and her hand found its way to the side of his face again. He breathed out and closed his eyes as her thumb stroked the marks beneath his eye sockets, leaning into her hand once more. 

It would have been easy for her to kiss him then. The urge rose up in her, sudden and uncontrollable. So easy to tilt up onto her toes and kiss him with his eyes still closed, kiss him like they really were a young Shantytown couple. 

But no. It wasn’t her place. And if she kissed him once, she wasn’t sure where it would stop. 

“We have a party to get to,” she whispered, and drew her hand away. Héctor opened his eyes as if in a daze and smiled before offering his arm. 

“Shall we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right from the very beginning of writing this fic, I knew I was taking a risk. I wanted to explore Héctor from a sadder, almost darker place that we saw at Chicharrón death or when he nearly gave up trapped in the cenote, and explore Imelda as she opened up and reclaimed some of the time that Héctor's disappearance stole from her, both things we didn't have a ton of canon content to help with. A lot of my characterization, as a result, has been to write (and rewrite, and rewrite, and scrap it all and rewrite is all from scratch) to try to be true to these characters while still exploring what I set out to. So, that said, I wanted to add just a little appreciation to you all for showing an interest in my little story. Getting comments about how you are enjoying the fic/this particular line/this bit of characterization means the world, it really does. Thank you so much, and I will see you next Friday!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support last chapter. It means a lot. <3

It was a crossroads where the many paths of Shantytown intersected, creating a quite sizable meeting area. A large bonfire was in the center, and, with the sun just setting, already people had gathered there. Héctor walked with one arm offered to Imelda and the other carefully cradling his guitar. The entire walk there people had called out joyfully when they saw him and Imelda could feel their curious gazes on her. Now, as they entered the crossroads, she tugged at the dress and fiddled nervously with her hair until Héctor put his mouth right to her ear. “You’re lovely, stop worrying.” A ridiculous command. She didn’t know any of these people after all, and they didn’t know her except through gossip. 

Except everyone smiled. They might have stared as well, but they smiled. A woman with completely grey hair who came up to Héctor’s waist bustled up to them with hands wringing a little gleefully. “Is this Imelda?” she asked slyly, not bothering with any introduction. 

“What, a minute in and already trying to steal my girl?” Héctor wielded his guitar like a shield between Imelda and the stranger. “Have you no shame?” 

The old woman giggled. She was missing maybe half her teeth. She slapped at Héctor’s knee with what sounded like surprising force. “You know me well, sly devil.” 

There was a burst of sound from across the way as a large group of skeletons made their appearance, and Imelda watched Héctor’s eyes dart up, around, brighten with recognition, and then return to the woman with teasing warmth. “Any devil in me I learned from you,  Tía Rosemary.” 

This time it was more of a cackle than a giggle, and Rosemary nodded sagely. “Might be. Might be. Alright then, get along there with your guitar, let some devil out tonight.” She waved a hand in dismissal and began to turn away with her gappy smile. Héctor nodded her way and headed straight for the noisy arrivals, leading Imelda after him. Rosemary waved at Imelda as they passed and gave a wink Imelda wasn’t sure how to interpret. It seemed pretty suggestive. And then Rosemary was just another part of the crowd.

“Aye, are we ready to make some music?” Héctor called to the group as he pulled Imelda along with just a bit of uncontrollable exuberance, steps almost a skip. He was met with general cries of agreement and Imelda noticed that each newcomer was carrying some sort of instrument. Some obviously handmade and some battered but obviously originally quite nice. Héctor’s clean white guitar stood out even in the flickering firelight. Multiple sets of eyes landed on Imelda all at once and she knew she would have been the one blushing if possible. But before anyone could say anything, Héctor tugged her a little closer so they were neatly pressed together; if she weren’t wearing a dress, Imelda would have worried about their rib bones locking together. “This is my wife, Imelda.” Héctor sounded so proud of the fact, and she knew the smug smile that would be on his face without needing to check.

“And she settled for  _ you _ ?” one of the musicians joked, and they all began to laugh, even Héctor. And then the musicians were gathering around them, some asking Héctor what songs they’d be playing, others making some other joke about how Imelda was out of her husband’s league and then slapping her on the back like any old neighbor. A woman carrying some sort of carved wood instrument reached out and played with the ribbons on Imelda’s dress. “So pretty!” 

She might as well have been caught back standing on the stage at the Sunrise Spectacular, thousands of skeletons watching her in silence like a bug beneath a lens. What was she supposed to do? Try to joke back? Compliment the woman on her frayed shirt and torn up trousers? She had no idea what to do. Imelda could feel herself freezing up, but then Héctor’s hand was suddenly at her waist, his mouth at her ear once more with a gentle whisper. “You’re fine. You’re fine. Just smile and keep walking.” He pushed out of the crowd to the edge of the boardwalk and sat Imelda down on a crude bench made of a planks and some loose bricks, right beside a girl in a smart red dress, even if it was a little patchy. “Imelda, Grace. Grace, Imelda, my wife.” Again, that smugly proud voice, but then it dropped to a mutter. “It’s her first time at a real Shantytown party. Keep an eye on her for me, make sure some scoundrel doesn’t whisk her away? Or  Tía Rosemary?” 

Grace laughed and waved at Imelda in greeting before Imelda had time to feel insulted being passed around like a delicate package. She had a bottle of alcohol in her other hand. “I’ll take care of her. You go.” Héctor nodded before kneeling before Imelda, eyes big and begging. 

“I promised I’d play a few songs, but then I’ll be back. Wait for me?” 

Imelda nodded, not sure what else to do. After so many lazy and quiet afternoons, everything felt so rushed. Héctor grabbed her hand and kissed it before shooting back upright and bounding across the boards to where the musicians were setting up their makeshift band. Imelda turned to watch him go. It was Grace’s finger poking at her shoulder that drew Imelda’s attention away from Héctor’s smile, the easy motion of his arms and fingers as he began to pluck out chords. “First time partying, huh?” 

“Well, no…” Imelda managed a small smile. “But first time at a party of this...type.” 

“Ah, well,” Grace drawled, and lifted her bottle of alcohol. Whiskey, it looked like. “You’re from uptown, right? Fancy proper parties.” 

Imelda didn’t bother pointing out that it was her first party as a dead person. She simply nodded. 

Grace grinned. “We might be disappearing out here, but we know how to  _ live _ better than any of you up there. Maybe because we know we don’t have much time.”

Imelda frowned a little. The feeling of impending death might be freeing, in a way, she supposed. What would she do, if she knew she was not long for this world?

Héctor chose to trade stories and take her to dances and make fun of her inability to sew clothes. Or rather, she’d forced that on him. What would he have done differently, had she not shown up and demanded to be a part of his final months?

Something clinked against her arm. The whiskey. “No, gracias,” Imelda murmured, and pushed it back towards Grace. It was enough that she was all dressed up at a Shantytown party. The addition of alcohol might make it a disaster. Grace shrugged and took a swig. 

The moon rose over the water and it wasn’t long before the crossroads was teeming with people. Imelda couldn’t imagine how there would be room for dancing with all the souls of Shantytown gathered, with yellowed bones and torn clothes but beaming smiles. She couldn’t see Héctor anymore and scooted a little closer to Grace, who took her arm without a word. Suddenly, the cacophonous blort of a lone trumpet sounded above the crowd, withered to silence, and then the band began to play, filling the air with music and frenzied cheering. Imelda couldn’t even tell which song it was, but skeleton after skeleton linked arms and began to dance along, feet hitting the boards in rhythm. It wasn’t any sort of dance she’d been taught growing up, just joyful motion to the song. And now she could hear it, the ragtag band: 

_ “Antenoche fui a tu casa _

_ Tres golpes le di al candado _

_ Tú no sirves para amores _

_ Tienes el sueño pesado… _

_ ¡Ay! Sandunga, Sandunga mamá por Dios _

_ Sandunga no seas ingrata, mamá de mi corazón!” _

This song again. But Imelda couldn’t help but clap her hands along with everyone else, their enthusiasm infectious. It was just like her first parties out in town in Santa Cecilia, so different from the formal get-togethers her parents arranged. It was Héctor who had taken her to those first exhilarating nights where she could shed every rich girl constriction, always Héctor who dragged her out of that stifling life and into his, who showed her a place she never knew she already belonged to. 

He was doing the same thing now. 

“C’mon, we have to dance!” Grace insisted, and abandoned her bottle of whiskey on the bench so she could tug Imelda up and right into the thick of things. Grace grabbed both her hands and began to jump around to the rhythm, curls bouncing and mouth open wide with laughter as her bare feet struck the boards. Imelda attempted to jump a little in place, but Grace just gave her a disparaging look before gripping her hands extra tight and sending them both off spinning. Imelda yelped—a sound immediately lost in the crowd—and the hat nearly flew off her head. She was sure she was going to accidentally hit someone and smash them to pieces, but the crowd of dancers simply flowed around them as Grace spun them around. Imelda’s skirt billowed up to her knees, and suddenly she was released only to be immediately grabbed by a young man who grinned at her and began to dance once more, hands on her waist and hers on his shoulders. When Imelda glanced over her own shoulder, she saw that Grace had taken up her dance with another girl, though she winked at Imelda when their eyes met. 

And so the song continued, and effortlessly flowed into another, and Imelda danced from partner to partner, hair whipping around her face and dress swirling about her legs. A laugh burst from her mouth and then she couldn’t stop smiling. It was completely overwhelming and she knew she would feel exhausted later, but now, she wouldn’t stop dancing for the world. It was just like the Sunrise Spectacular again, but later, not trapped up on stage but that timeless moment when she’d thrown herself into  Héctor’s arms with no care in the world, because the song coursing through her had been enough, had created, if just for a few seconds, a separate world that was just him and her and the music connecting them.

“Imelda!” 

Imelda lifted her hands from her current dance partner and swept the little boy at her feet up before he could get crushed. Apparently she was still recognizable enough for the children. “Did I promise you a dance?” she asked above the din. 

He nodded enthusiastically and Imelda tucked him close to her body to push her way out of the main throng of people, right to the edge where those who didn’t feel like dancing were either watching or drinking or both. A pack of children were immediately gathered around her, either lifting their arms to ask for a dance, or asking where Cousin Héctor was. “Héctor is playing right now,” Imelda informed them, and tweaked one of Emilia’s pigtails. “He’ll have time for you later. Be patient.” 

“Dance with me!” a little boy commanded. 

“No, me!” 

“Me!” 

“I’ll dance with all of you!” Imelda said firmly, and held out her hands. It wasn’t comfortable, bent in half so she could reach down to them and hold their hands, but the children shrieked with laughter and bounced around to the beat of the music as she carefully led them in a circle dance or occasionally took one up in her arms and spun around until she was sure she was going to be sick. 

A shriek tore through the air and Imelda jumped and hugged the child in her arms a little closer in the sudden silence before she realized she knew that cry and sighed a little with exasperation. That would be her husband, letting his nerves out before a song. She’d broken a bowl once, when she hadn’t realized he was right on the roof above her and let out one of his more startling Gritos. The other dancers had stopped and heads turned towards where the musicians were set up. Imelda couldn’t see anything at all, however, before one of the musicians with a brassy trumpet staggered up onto a stool to peer above the crowd. “We have a celebrity here with us tonight!” he hollered, and wavered a little on his perch. Already drunk, Imelda decided. But he righted himself soon enough with a saucy grin, and yanked at someone down below until—yes, definitely him—Héctor was standing on the stool as well, holding the guitar close and smiling nervously. “The authorities all want him, the whole of the Land of the Dead wants to meet him, but he’s here, with us, in little ol’ Shantytown! The real man behind Ernesto de la Cruz! Cousin Héctor!” The trumpeter leapt off the stool with a wobble, leaving Héctor alone with his guitar. A cheer went up and Héctor slapped a hand over his face, which prompted laughter and some friendly jibes. After a moment of enduring it, Héctor took the guitar in hand proper and his fingers jumped along the strings until the crowd went quiet. He smiled at that, and then strummed a few chords before launching into a melody, foot tapping the beat against the stool beneath him. 

“Okay, people, I know you know this one! Help me out here!”

Oh God, she did know this one. She knew it from the days he spent up on the roof writing it and then singing it for her to hear. And now even the children were singing along. Because of course Ernesto had made this one famous too. 

_ “What color is the sky _ __   
_ ¡Ay, mi amor! ¡Ay, mi amor! _ __   
__   
_ You tell me that it's red _ _   
_ __ ¡Ay, mi amor! ¡Ay, mi amor!”

Héctor disappeared off the stool and Imelda slowly set down the child in her arms. The girl grinned at Imelda and scampered over the join the others. Imelda pressed her hands to her spine and leaned backwards to try to soothe the pain there. She’d forgotten the special aches of dancing with children.

Someone tapped at her shoulder and she turned about. Hand fit into hand, another was slipped around her waist, hers went to his shoulder, and then Héctor was pulling her back into the dance, steps sure and smile only slightly sheepish. 

“Shouldn’t you be playing?” Imelda cried above the din even as she pushed herself closer into his arms. “Isn’t it your song?” 

He dipped his head to speak more directly into her ear again. “It’s your song, mi amor. I wrote it for you.” And then they were off, twirling and stomping their way across the crossroads. Héctor was humming to himself. She could feel the vibration of it. 

“The way you keep me guessing,” he whispered, and then grinned at her and began to sing, louder and louder as he went, only encouraging those around them to begin to sing as well, until it seemed the whole party was yelling out the lyrics as loud as they possibly could. 

_ “I'm nodding and I'm yessing _ __   
_ I'll count it as a blessing _ _   
_ __ That I'm only un poco loco!”

Imelda couldn’t duck her head fast enough to hide her smile. Héctor just laughed and played with the stray ends of her hair as the spinning slowed to a gentle back and forth, completely out of rhythm with the song that continued to be sung around them. After a moment, he lifted the hat from her head to lay a gentle kiss to her forehead, and then set the hat back down. “I think I owe a dance to a few little girls. Excuse me for a song or two?” She nodded, head still down, and he slipped away. Imelda stood in the center of the dance, and it wasn’t the brush of skirts or raucous singing of the crowd she felt or heard, but the sheets warmed from sunlight and Héctor’s playful voice as he jumped from the roof and chased her through the laundry hung to dry. And she’d kissed him and kissed him and kissed him again…

Grace was back on the bench when Imelda stumbled out of the crowd and collapsed upon it. Wordlessly, she handed over the whiskey. This time, Imelda took it. She was a grown woman, after all. It was alright to have a drink now and again. 

As she sipped delicately from the bottle, she watched Héctor out of the corner of her eye, playing with the children. So good with them. Always so good with them. God, how could she ever have thought he would leave Coco behind? Trying to reconcile the image she’d held of her unfaithful husband for nearly a century with the man she saw now, playing about with the kids, was impossible. Why did he ever have to leave? Didn’t he understand that she wanted nothing more than for their little family to grow together, perhaps not rich but full of love and music?

Héctor met her eyes as he danced about with Emilia in his arms and winked. Imelda’s chest bloomed warmth. God, it really was like being young again. Young and so impossibly in love.

Yes, always, always, in love.

The sudden warmth turned to ice. She could practically feel it crackling along her ribs, creeping up her spine as she watched  Héctor dance. This was a mistake. 

She should have known this was a mistake since the very beginning. 

If there had been hatred, then there wouldn’t be a problem. She hated Ernesto. Whatever their past was, no matter any future they may have had, she would hate him forever for taking everything away from her and that would never change. But she had never hated Héctor. She had cursed his name and torn him off the family photo, she had systematically erased his existence from her life, she had rejected him in death without listening to a word he said, and she’d thought it was hate, convinced herself  _ she hated him hated him hated him _ but she’d been wrong. 

It was heartbreak. It was the betrayal. It was the fact that she so deeply loved someone who had seemed to love her back just as much until the day he suddenly didn’t. It was never hate. It had been love turned bitter. And love turned bitter could turn back. Far too easily. That was her mistake, was underestimating how easy it would be. 

She loved him. And being around him now wasn’t helping her to move on from him. That was what her original purpose had been after all: to see him once, get some closure, and let him alone to disappear the way he wanted it. 

Or maybe that had just been her excuse to see him again. 

She tilted the bottle up and swallowed a great mouthful of whiskey. Was it responsible of her? No. But she needed to be less sober to deal with this. Grace snatched the bottle back before she could finish. “Okay, whoa, still need you upright.” 

“I’m upright.” Imelda stood too quickly and staggered just a bit, but got herself righted at once. “Thanks for the drink.” She only managed a few steps towards the crowd of dancers before Grace’s arm looped around her waist. 

“Héctor told me to keep an eye out for you.”

Imelda crossed her arms. “I am perfectly alright. I want to dance.” 

“Okay, okay.” Grace let go of her waist but latched onto Imelda’s shoulders instead. “But dance with me.” 

Alright. It didn’t matter who she was dancing with. She just needed to forget herself for a moment, to lose herself in the music and the excitement of the crowd. Surrounded by other dancing, singing skeletons passing around bottles of tequila and whiskey, she could let that energy enter her and then empty her out so she wouldn’t have to think about her own mistakes or that soft golden light that this would inevitably end with. She could let the character of Mamá Imelda go, forgo the responsibility, forgo the emotions, just move in time to the music. Like when she a little girl dancing in the rain, now the raindrops were simply people and she was being washed clean. Forget, forget, forget, forget. 

But of course it wouldn’t be that easy. Without words, Grace’s hands on her shoulders were replaced, and then she was pressed up close to Héctor once more. He cocked his head to the side and stared down at her, and then reached to tilt the brim of the hat up so he could see her better. “What’s wrong?” he asked. 

I don’t know what to do. About you. About me. 

“I just need to dance,” Imelda answered, up on her toes so she could whisper to him. “Like when the mariachi played. Dance with me like that.” 

Help me forget. 

Héctor studied her face for a moment more before nodding and grabbing her waist so they could move to the music once more, insinuating flawlessly into the crowd. Imelda’s hair flew free behind her, her skirt billowed up about her legs, and she could feel the heat of the bonfire when they strayed close to the center of the crowd. Héctor’s hands were sure, and he never led them astray as they maneuvered through the other dancing couples, twirling and twisting like they once had to the mariachi players. Imelda could feel the alcohol starting to get to her, a warmth travelling down to her frozen ribcage, and she was so close—so close—to losing herself completely in the quick beat and raucous crowd when suddenly the song halted and Héctor stopped in place. Vaguely, Imelda heard people call out suggestions for the musicians, and then the music started up again, slower and gentler. A ballad. A love song. 

This was not the sort of dance that would help her forget. Imelda pulled out of Héctor’s grip and he flinched backwards as if burnt, eyes wide and anxious. “Imelda?” 

“I—I…” Around them, other couples shifted closer, began to sway to the gentle lullaby of the guitar. Imelda fisted her hands in her skirt and studied the boards beneath her feet. What could she tell him? That she loved him? What good could that do besides endlessly complicate things? Héctor didn’t need her confessions now. He needed care and stability and all those other things dying people needed. Not her heavy and heated feelings. And what good could it do for her to say it? Saying it wouldn’t change anything. The years between them would still be broken, Héctor would still disappear, and he still wouldn’t ever see Coco again. 

The world seemed so overwhelmingly dark all of a sudden, and all she could remember was how Héctor’s arms had always made everything seem a little bit more alright. Not fixed, but manageable, with the two of them together taking it on. 

She needed him to make everything a little bit more alright.

Imelda released the dress fabric in her grip and held out her hands to her husband. He tilted his head to the side and shuffled a little closer before taking them. “Imelda, can I—?” 

Imelda frowned a little in concentration as she threaded their fingers together and then carefully stepped up to him until she could lean forward and rest her head against his collarbone. He stopped breathing, and though she couldn’t see it because of the hat, she imagined his expression was confused and concerned. “Will you dance with me like this?” she whispered, and after a moment, he began to sway back and forth to the song. 

“Imelda…”

She shut her eyes and nestled closer. No, this was not quite how she remembered it. Much bonier. Not as warm. But it was still him. Steady and careful, he rested his chin atop her hat and brought one pair of their linked hands up to his mouth to leave a delicate kiss on her fingers. 

“What song is this?” Imelda asked, and he shrugged. 

“Something modern, I think. Music has changed a lot since I was alive. Some of those fads were interesting, and by interesting I mean I’m not sure it even counted as music and I have the bar set pretty much on the ground there already.” The last bit was delivered in a heated mutter like he was trying to win an argument. Imelda just hummed and considered the music surrounding them. She thought she could hear someone trying to sing the lyrics, but the words were mostly lost out upon the water. So much could be lost—abandoned—out on this water. When Imelda opened her eyes, she could watch the other couples move, all slow, all mostly silent but for the creak in their bones and the wooden boards beneath their feet. Imelda couldn’t make out the children or anyone she knew, but there was an incredible sort of intimacy to that. Her fingers were still linked in Héctor’s. She undid them so she could place both hands on his shoulders, and then looped her arms around his neck.

“I don’t dislike it,” she said.

He smirked as his hands fell to the small of her back. “You always had low standards.” 

She made a little noise of exasperation. “Would you prefer me to hate your songs?”

“Well, I feel lonely doing it all by myself.” 

“Shush. Just dance with me.” 

“If you insist.” He went quiet and swayed to the rhythm. But only for a moment. “How much did you drink anyway?”

Of course he could tell. “Shush,” she repeated, and hid her eyes in his vest. “I am in a relatively good mood. Don’t ruin it.”

He was still for a moment, and then patted her on the top of the hat like she was a little girl—like she was Emilia, or Coco even—and resumed swaying. The slow song ended only to be replaced by another one. It must have gotten to that time of the evening, when no one had the energy to do more than drink and gently dance to ballads. Héctor seemed to like this song more than the last, humming along so soft he might have thought she couldn’t hear. Even if he’d hated music for a while, he hadn’t managed to block it from his life the way she had. The musicians could play for a week straight and Imelda might not recognize any of the songs that had emerged following her ban. The thought stirred both miserable and excited feelings inside her. Miserable that she had lost music for so long, excited that there was so much to rediscover. Music she could bring home to the family. For Victoria, who had never had lullabies to lull her to sleep, had been born and lived and died in a songless family. For Coco, whose love of music was cut so short. As soon as Coco died...     

Her arms around his neck were suddenly not enough. She slipped them away only to snake her hands down and around Héctor’s arms, fingers clenching in the back of his vest and forcing them closer in a sudden desperate motion. If only she could make this dance last forever. The two of them, swaying by the water with firelight flickering, never stopping, never slowing, never dying, with him safe in her arms. Slowly, carefully, his hands slid up her waist to begin playing gently with her hair. 

They stayed there, Imelda’s eyes hidden in his vest, his fingers stroking through her hair, as the music slowed and began to be riddled with errors, until she heard the couples around them disappear, until she dared to look to see barely anyone dancing anymore, most sitting on benches or sprawled on the ground passing bottles of whiskey and tequila about. The musicians were drinking too, taking turns with songs or sometimes stopping a song mid-way through to knock back a shot before they took the melody up again. The children were nowhere to be seen, as was half the crowd that had been there when the dance started. 

Héctor ducked his head to whisper to her. “We can stop dancing now, if you like. Party’s over.”

Imelda hummed again and lifted her head from his chest. She swept her hair over one shoulder and noticed all the little miniature braids Héctor had left there without her noticing. “Will you play again?”

Héctor surveyed the remnants of the party and snorted. “None of them would even notice.” 

“I would,” Imelda told him firmly, and he stared at her for a moment before nodding slightly. His touch lingered as he detangled their bodies but his steps were sure as he headed back to where the musicians were laughing weakly and draining bottles. The white guitar had been left in the hands of an elder gentleman, who didn’t even protest or react as Héctor plucked it from his grip. Héctor held the guitar easily and tuned it back to his pleasure as he meandered around the dying fire. Embers lit the air like fireflies and illuminated his face in brief sparks of color—the swirls beneath his eyes, the easy turn of his smile. Carefully, he began to play the unknown tune he’d been working on, stepping cautiously around the other dancers until he returned to her, because this song was hers and hers alone. Imelda smiled and began to circle him. He moved to follow her, of course, but Imelda plucked at his sleeve to keep him in place while she travelled around to his back and rubbed her cheekbone along the reassuring ridges of his spine. “Keep playing.”  

So he did, with her plastered to his back, able to feel every breath, every shift of his arms or tap of his foot. She closed her eyes and felt the warmth of the alcohol, the solidity of his body, the bit of breeze that had picked up over the river. The tune floated above the smoke, the tap of feet on wood, the laughter of the skeletons drinking the rest of the night away. Yes, this song was hers. And also unfinished. Eventually, his playing slowed and then stopped altogether, but Imelda didn’t want to let go. Wanted to capture this moment and take it out whenever she needed it. A kaleidoscope of dying embers and the sweetness of song that would bring back the feel of Héctor safe and solid in her arms, even long after he was gone. 

Eventually, he turned in her hold and placed a gentle finger beneath her chin. “You should be getting home.” 

Come with me, she could say. Come with me, and let us spend every day together, every spare moment, so I can bottle them all up and keep them forever. We can bring the children. We can bring all of Shantytown if you like. Just let me have as much of you as I can, before time runs out.

But she didn’t say it. She simply nodded, and took his hand tight as they turned away from the flickering bonfire and walked into the night. 

 

* * *

 

“I can’t let you go home like this,” he told her, the moment she had changed back into her usual dress and apron. Imelda frowned at him as she did up her hair as neatly as she could. 

“I’m hardly incapacitated. It was few drinks of whiskey. And I could always hold my alcohol better than you.” 

Héctor just shrugged one shoulder. “I know all that. But I’d still feel better knowing that you got home safe.” 

She tied off a ribbon with a final jerking motion. “What do you suggest? Should I call Pepita?” 

Even in the darkness of the hut, she saw his shudder. “No, the cat monster isn’t necessary. I’ll walk you.” 

She froze with hands patting stray hairs in place. “You want to come into the city? With everyone looking for you?” 

He shrugged again. “It’s late. And it’s been months. They can’t be looking for me all that hard.” 

True. But he’d always had a knack for attracting trouble. And he’d seemed so cautious about entering the city not long ago. “And what will you do if someone does recognize you?” 

“Let you clobber them with you shoe,” he replied cheerfully, and Imelda knew there was no talking him out of this. Maybe he’d had a bit to drink when she wasn’t looking.

“Fine. But I don’t approve.” 

Héctor laughed and offered his arm. Imelda huffed and quickly put on her earrings before taking up her basket and travelling to his side. It was sweet, she could admit in her head. But she wouldn’t tell him that, not encourage it, not when going into the city was such a potential threat. But it was indeed late, and her steps were perhaps not as steady as they could be. One walk home would be alright. 

Shantytown seemed almost abandoned, and Imelda imagined most were asleep to ward off hangovers. Héctor hummed happily to himself as they passed beneath the stone arch and set off upwards in the direction of her home. Imelda was about to question why he seemed so sure of his way, even without her guidance and when she’d—thirty years ago—changed residences specifically to set up a shoe shop and make sure he couldn’t find her again, but remembered that he had escaped through her window once and made his way to the river. For someone who had been navigating the Land of the Dead for so long, that one trip was probably enough. Sometimes even Imelda got lost in the spiralling towers of streets and homes and businesses or took the wrong trolley. But Héctor pulled her along a little faster so they could just catch a trolley heading upwards, and then the two of them stood out back, leaning against the bars to watch the city beneath them. 

“It’s even more beautiful when flying,” Imelda whispered, shoulder nudging his. 

“No,” he replied immediately. “No, that’s not happening.” 

She smiled and tilted her head against his shoulder. “You could sit behind me this time.”     

“Still not happening.”

Imelda made a discontented little sound and allowed her head to stay rested on his shoulder. Beneath and all around them, the tilting towers of the Land of the Dead glowed orange and yellow and red. Héctor’s arm settled around her shoulders, and after a moment he began to point out his favorite places, good restaurants or hidey-holes or buildings he knew as something else back in the day. He perked up as the trolley dipped lower to the ground, and before Imelda could even react, he swung over the railing and landed on the street while the trolley continued on. “Come on!” he called, arms open wide. Already the trolley was beginning to lift higher. 

“Are you insane?” Imelda hissed, but he just opened his arms wider and beckoned with his fingers. Imelda gathered up her skirts and slipped beneath the railing, one hand on her basket and other hand gripping the bar tight even as she travelled further and further from the ground. 

“I’ve got you!” Héctor assured her, running to keep up. Imelda shut her eyes, breathed out, reminded herself that the worst thing that could happen were a few scattered bones, and let go of the bar. The wind whipped against her face as she fell, and then familiar arms were catching her and letting her gently down onto the cobbles. She opened her eyes and stared up into Héctor’s bright smile and soft eyes. “Got you,” he said, and removed his hands from around her waist. Above them, the trolley continued on its track into the sky. 

Imelda knocked a fist against his chest without any real anger. “You might have warned me.” 

He took her fist and turned it easily into a handhold. “Sorry. I forget not everyone rides the trolleys the way I do. I’ll warn you next time.” 

Next time. She secreted the words away as they began to follow the road upwards. The unconventional trolley ride had taken them much of their way, and she doubted she had twenty minutes before he would drop her off and be gone. The streets were hardly deserted, but much emptier than during daylight hours. Most skeletons still decided to follow some sort of sleep schedule. But of the ones out and about, no one gave Héctor a second glance. Not as famed songwriter Héctor Rivera, or as an obvious Shantytown resident escorting her along, as he’d feared. Héctor still acted a little jumpy whenever they passed near someone, but calmed down as time went by and no one stared or cared. Too soon, Imelda could make out the form of Pepita curled atop her house. The alebrije’s eyes glowed in the dark as they got closer, and Héctor stopped short. 

“Will it…?” 

“She won’t hurt you,” Imelda scoffed, and dragged him forward. She would come in through the kitchen door. If she was quiet enough, no one would notice, and they never bothered to lock up in back with Pepita on watch. Besides, she’d told them all she’d be home late. The alebrije watched them travel to the stoop, tail twitching. Imelda made a few soothing clicking noises as she went, and Pepita rolled lazily onto her side with a small mewl. Imelda made it to the step before turning and patting at her hair. “Do I look…?”

“Like you’ve been out drinking at Shantytown parties?” He reached out to play with her ribbons, to run one long finger along her necklace. “No. No, you look very presentable.” He smiled and dusted off one of her shoulders. “I should go before anyone sees. Will you come again? The day after tomorrow?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” The step gave her a bit more height. Quick before her common sense could kick in, she leaned over and kissed his cheek. It felt very different from how she remembered, hard and cold bone instead of pliant and warm skin, and he went very still at the touch. Imelda straightened up quickly and spun around to face the door. Yes, if she still had blood, she would most definitely be blushing. “Ahem. Be safe getting home. Thank you for walking me.”

“O-of course,” he replied, and she heard his footsteps back away from the door and start down the street. Imelda risked a glance over her shoulder, of course at the same time he looked at her. Their eyes met and they both froze, him with one foot in the air and her with the latch to the door in hand. After a few seconds, Héctor smiled gently and waved a little. Imelda ducked her head and wiggled the fingers of her free hand in return before escaping inside. She shut the door quietly behind her and leaned against it with a sigh. Her basket slipped from her fingers and landed with a little thud on the floor, a bit of the lilac dress flopping over the side. Imelda’s hands covered her mouth and she slid down the door, trying to bite back a smile. But no good. As cold as the kiss had been, she felt all warm in a way the alcohol never achieved. Could so easily recall the feel of his hands, the ridges of his spine, the husky quality of his voice as he sang in her ear. 

She loved him. There was nothing stuck in the past about it. He was the love of her life. The love of her death. She could have danced forever, tucked close in his arms. 

Honestly, that Héctor Rivera, always showing up at the most unexpected times and changing everything. 

And then disappearing, and changing everything all over again. 

Her smile slipped away and she bit down on one of her fingers to keep the cries from coming as she settled on the floor, bent over her knees. Yes, this rapid switch between euphoria and the depths of sadness was also something she associated with him. Damn it. Damn it.

This would be so much easier if she had never learned to love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sort of unofficial end of part one?   
> Anyway part two isn't completely polished so it might take me two weeks for the next update. I'll try to stick to next Friday as usual, but just so you know the story isn't abandoned or anything if I don't post next week.   
> As always, thank you for reading! Reading, reviewing, leaving kudos, even reccing this story to other people, it all makes me so incredibly happy! I hope you enjoyed the update and look forward to the next one!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is late, I'm very sorry! Thank you for your wonderful comments and kudos!!!

Héctor was waiting for her when she arrived the day after next, leaning against the stone arch that marked the entrance into Shantytown. He grinned and swept his hat off in a show of politeness before bounding across the boards and taking her hand. “Sober yet?” 

She scoffed and pushed at his chest even as they started forward together. “I was never drunk.” 

Not that it had helped much. Everyone at home had picked up on the fact that she had arrived back very late. None of them had said anything, but she had felt their eyes on her all yesterday, silently wondering where she might have been. But the youthful dress was hidden way in the back of her wardrobe and Imelda wouldn’t ever speak of the party to her family. Wouldn’t ever speak of that other piece of her afterlife she was keeping hidden out over the river. 

Was this how adulteresses felt, she wondered as she walked side by side with her husband. Except she wasn’t cheating on a spouse, but her entire family. Cheating on them with this other family—Héctor, the children—that she snuck off to every other day. But she didn’t feel guilty about it at all. Was that awful? Should she feel guilty? 

No, she wouldn’t. Not with how little time she had left. She would be in the Land of the Dead for a very long time after Héctor and all the children had moved on. These few months would mean nothing, in the end. 

Héctor leapt down a staircase and held his arms up to lift her down. Imelda placed her hands on his shoulders for added stability and studied his face as she was swept off her feet into his care. His eyes were bright, his facial markings clear. Fixing up his clothes, as poor a job as she had done, had made a difference. Even his bones seemed whiter. Not much, but a little. “Do I have something on my face?” he asked as he set her back down on the boardwalk. 

A swoop of spontaneity swept through her, same as at the party when she had begged him for a dance. She stood up on her toes and kissed his cheek in the same place she had the other night. “Yes,” she mumbled against his face, and spun around quickly to start off once more to his shack. She held out her hand behind her automatically for him to take, and after a moment she heard him scramble to catch up and twine their fingers together. “Where are the children? They’ve usually found us by now.” 

“Ah…” She didn’t need to turn around to know what expression matched that sheepish, sorrowful sigh. “One of the boys...isn’t feeling well.” 

She stopped so suddenly he ran right into her, popping an arm clean off. Imelda turned back to him, sinking feeling in her chest. “He’s being forgotten?” 

Héctor leaned over to nab his arm and fix it back into place. His eyes studied the sky rather than risk meeting hers. “That’s...the only thing it can be.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me the moment I got here?”

Héctor shrugged one shoulder, the happiness he’d been exuding falling away like the facade it was. He’d had her fooled completely. “He’s resting now. He doesn’t...need you right now. Later. Later we’ll see him.” 

Imelda pulled her hand from his so she could place hers on her hips. “You still could have told me!” 

Héctor’s eyes rolled back from the skies to regard her with a resigned look. “Imelda, I wouldn’t say you have a wonderful history of respecting the wishes of the forgotten. If you’d listened to mine, you wouldn’t be here.” 

That stung. She drew further away, trying not to let her face give away just how much. “So you don’t want me here? Is that what you’re saying?” 

Héctor sighed and rubbed at his temple. “Can we do this not in public, please?” 

There was hardly anyone out on the boardwalk, but if they were due a shouting match, it would be best to keep it indoors. Imelda scowled and adjusted her basket as she spun on her heel. “Fine.” She led the way to his hut with ease, him trailing behind the whole time. The moment they had both pushed their way through the blanket entrance, she dropped her basket and turned to him with arms crossed. “Explain.” 

Héctor sighed and went to the open wall so he could gaze into the water. “What’s to explain? I asked you to let me die in peace, and you tracked me down here.” 

“So you don’t want me here?” 

Again he shrugged, entire body slumped. “I do and I don’t.” He buried his face in one hand and wrapped the other about his chest, tight, like he was desperately trying to keep something hidden inside. “How am I supposed to explain it to you, Imelda, when I can’t even explain it to myself?” 

Being angry wasn’t going to do anything to help. She knew that. She  _ knew  _ that. So she swallowed the anger for later, took a few deep breaths, and then approached the open wall. At first she was just going to stand beside him, but the sad line of his shoulders made her ribcage ache. He looked so very, very lonely silhouetted against the water like that. Slowly, she wound her arms around him and lay her cheek against his back. “Just tell me the truth,” she whispered. “I know...I know you didn’t want me to come, but I thought...I thought that by now…” 

Cautious, careful, his hands found hers, brought one hand to his mouth so he could kiss her fingers with slow and doting precision. “This isn’t about me,” he reminded her gently. “It’s about the child.”

Imelda scowled against his back. He was dodging the question, but he was right at the same time. She would store this conversation away for later, in the same place the anger simmered. “How is he?”

Héctor sighed again, ribcage expanding and contracting within her arms. “Danny is tired and scared. I was with him most of the night. He just fell asleep before dawn. We can go visit him in a few hours, but we shouldn’t overwhelm him.” He turned in her hold and stared down at her with helpless eyes, head shaking slightly side to side. “The children don’t understand the final death, not really. All they know is they feel weak and tired. I don’t like to tell them they’re going to disappear. I say it’s only a cold.” 

Danny. Daniel. One of the more mischievous boys of the bunch. Hadn’t she danced with him just two nights ago? She couldn’t have guessed he was close to the final death. But that’s what Héctor had told her, wasn’t it? That it could come fast and be gone within days or even hours. Imelda held Héctor’s gaze for a long moment before sighing herself and resting her head against his chest. Alright. She could wait until Héctor thought it a good idea to visit. He was the expert here, after all. “Will he want to eat?” she asked. 

“I doubt it,” Héctor answered, his own hands settling on her waist. “But a meal will distract the other children. They’re all upset. We can go find where they’re hiding, give them something else to focus on.” 

She nodded but made no move to leave his arms. Not yet. 

To give herself just a few more precious moments of reprieve.

 

* * *

 

The little boy was barely holding onto consciousness when Héctor and Imelda pushed their way into the hut he was lying in. Usually Daniel had stayed with many of the other children in a hut they had claimed for their own as orphans, but some soul had given up their lodgings to allow the boy a quiet passing. There was no one else in the hut at the moment, though some adults had been lingering outside. They’d been waiting, sitting with their legs in the water or leaning against nearby huts. Their faces all held the same strained expression, their bodies the same nervous tension. The final death could never be easy. It must be even worse to lose a child. Same as in life, really.

Daniel’s eyes brightened a little when he saw them and he sat up a little against the pile of blankets and raggedy pillows provided him. “Cousin Héctor,” he mumbled with a smile. “Cousin Imelda.” 

Imelda fell to her knees beside him and pushed his messy black hair from his forehead. “Hola Danny,” she said softly. “I hear you’re not feeling well.” 

His weak smile wavered. “It’s just a cold. Right, Cousin Héctor?” 

“That’s right, chamaco.” Héctor crouched down on Daniel’s other side and ruffled his hair, effectively undoing Imelda’s work. “You’ll feel better soon.” 

Daniel nodded and let his eyes close once more. Even such a short conversation was exhausting. Imelda met Héctor’s eyes across his sleeping form, searching for some sort of guidance. But for all his supposed expertise on the final death, he seemed as lost as she did. He only shook his head and adjusted some of the blankets. They stayed for perhaps an hour as Daniel slept between them. Imelda held the boy’s hand, stroking her thumb across his palm. Héctor just sat cross-legged and watched. He stirred when one of the other children stuck their head into the hut. 

“Cousin Héctor? Can Danny come play now?” 

Héctor stood and walked over to the entrance, ushering the little girl back outside. “No. No, not now. Did you finish your lunch?” 

She nodded. Imelda had spoiled them all with fruit and sweets. 

Héctor smiled bright and fake. “Well, why don’t you round everyone up for a game of ball?”

“We don’t have a ball.” 

“Cousin Missy has one. Go pester her.” 

The girl nodded and ran off across the boardwalk. Héctor stayed at the doorway for a long time before finally turning to Imelda. “There’s others who want to say their goodbyes. We should leave for now.” 

Imelda nodded and followed him back outside, where even more skeletons had congregated. Imelda ducked her head as she passed, feeling their hopeless eyes upon her. Now, suddenly, she felt like an intruder. Did she really belong here, sharing their pain? Héctor just kept pulling her along, though, until it was just them on the boardwalk, the bright light of afternoon sun, and the sound of their footsteps. 

Finally, Imelda had to ask. “I know you can’t be certain but...how long?” 

Héctor glanced over at her and tugged at the brim of his hat. “I don’t think he’ll still be here come morning.” 

Imelda nodded and let the rest of the journey back to Héctor’s hut pass in silence. Most of the rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, actually. Héctor stood near the open wall, breaking off small slivers of wood from the beams of the hut and chucking them into the river. Imelda found herself longing for shoes in her hands, just for something to do that she had some knowledge of, some power over. She wanted to return to Daniel, to offer him the food she had hidden away in the bottom of her basket while she was passing out lunch to the children. She wanted to tuck him in tight and kiss his forehead and turn this all into just a cold. She wanted to see the children running rampant across the boardwalk once more, every single one of them healthy and fully remembered. 

“I could stay tonight,” she offered at last. Héctor shook his head. 

“It won’t help, Imelda.”

“You said you stayed with him last night. Why can’t I?” He didn’t answer. Just tore off another piece of wood and tossed it into the water. “Why can’t I?” Imelda insisted, and stood to go stand beside him, to grab his shoulder and force him to look at her. Finally he frowned.

“Last night Danny was still awake enough. Playing music for him made him smile, took his mind off the pain. Tonight, all he’ll do is sleep, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re unlucky?” 

He shut his eyes and rubbed a hand down his face. “Then he’s awake and hurting and scared and you being there won’t change anything.”

She crossed her arms, foot starting to tap. “Why not? I know...I know that I’m not...that I don’t live here, I know that, but I know Daniel! I’ve been feeding him lunch for months! He spends every other afternoon with me! How could my presence  _ harm _ him?” 

Héctor peered at her between splayed fingers and turned away stubbornly. “It won’t help either. Just go Imelda. Otherwise your family will worry and send the cat monster and then you’ll be causing trouble for everyone.” He waved his free hand dismissively. “This isn’t our first final death, or our last. We know what we’re doing out here, whether you believe it or not. This isn’t…” He scowled and turned his face away completely, so all she could see was the tension in his arms and shoulders. “This isn’t for you,” he finished at last, tone bitter as his hands returned to ripping the chunks of wood away, and something inside Imelda lurched.

Not for her? 

“You’re trying to send me home?” she asked softly.

Héctor sighed and they both watched a piece of wood go sailing from his hand into the river. “It’s where you should be right now,” he answered simply, and that casual dismissal was, somehow, more infuriating than everything else.

Not  _ for _ her? After so many months of welcoming her into his home, suddenly in the span of a day, Héctor suddenly didn’t want her here at all. Not for Daniel. And probably not for himself either. 

_ I asked you to let me die in peace, and you tracked me down here. _

The anger she had stowed away early erupted back to life. “Fine!” Imelda spat, and stalked over to the entrance. “You want me gone? I’m gone! I don’t need your help to shore.” She shoved the blanket out of the way and walked with heavy tread out onto the boardwalk. Her shoes clicked with every step, and the sharp sound made her feel slightly better. How dare he send her home like an errant child. How dare he. How  _ dare _ he!

After twenty minutes or so she reached the stone arch and took a moment to stand there, staring back across Shantytown. The walk had cleared her mind a little, and now she remembered the feeling of unease when she had left Daniel’s hut, like she really was an intruder there. 

With her pure white bones and beautiful house to go back to, did she have a right to watch him die? 

The thought was not enough to make her regret her anger, but it made her regret how quickly she had acted on it. Temper, temper. She could almost hear her mother’s voice in her head. Justified temper, she argued back in her head. Well, yes, but justified anger made you do a lot of things you really regret now, didn’t it, the more annoying part of her brain chided in response. Which was unfair. Really, really unfair. 

Out here, skeletons lived hand in hand with the final death every day, and for decades Imelda hadn’t given them any thought at all. Maybe she really didn’t belong here, didn’t deserve to share their grief.

Maybe Héctor was right. This wasn’t for her. She understood him, where those words came from. But it didn’t lessen her desire to be at Daniel’s side at all. No matter what the adults thought of her, to the children she was Cousin Imelda, and she’d be damned before she let anyone’s opinion or her husband prevent her from doing what she knew was right. 

The concerns about her family sending Pepita were valid, though. She hadn’t told them that she might be back late, so they’d be expecting her before they went to sleep. Imelda looked up at the sun, just beginning to rotate towards sunset, and set off back up from the river into the city. She had time. 

Rosita and Julio were out doing laundry when Imelda got home. “Mamá Imelda!” Rosita trilled, and accidentally covered Julio with a sheet when she dropped her end. “You’re home early! How was your walk?” 

Imelda faked a smile and knew the moment she used it that both of them recognized it as a lie, Julio peering at her from under the sheet with a nervous expression. “It was a good walk. But Pepita needs exercise. I don’t think I’ll be back until morning. Or later. But I’m fine.” 

“Is something wrong? You seem...bothered…” Rosita began, and Imelda pushed her concern away. 

“I’m not bothered at all.” She looked up at the roof, where Pepita lay all curled up in a nap. “I just have somewhere to be.” 

Both Felipe and Óscar stuck their heads out the window as Imelda climbed up to the roof. “Imelda, you’re home! Would you like—” “—some dinner? We didn’t set a place for you but we—” “—can rearrange.” 

She sighed, stuck out on the ladder. She’d wanted to be quick and covert, and instead everybody knew she was back. “No thank you. I need to leave. Pepita!” She whistled, and saw the alebrije stir. “I won’t be back tonight!” she called as she reached the roof and pulled herself up. Pepita cocked her head and made a quisitive little sound, but perked up immediately when Imelda crawled up onto her back. Imelda clutched at her fur as Pepita stood and stretched her wings, waiting for instruction. “The river,” Imelda whispered, and off they went, not a single glance back at the Rivera home. Imelda’s stomach swooped in a way that reminded her she hadn’t flown since  Día de Los Muertos , but she remembered the sensation soon enough, enjoyed the sight of the city falling away beneath her, the feeling of the wind against her face. She’d been so hesitant when Pepita first came to her, began dogging her footsteps and showing up on the front step. She’d never flown in life, and the fact that she couldn’t technically die trying hadn’t been much of a confidence booster. But flying was just so much more convenient, and over the years she’d learned to trust the alebrije who had, for some unknown reason, chosen her so many decades ago. Flying was...was...was freedom. She could relinquish control, at least when it came to the skies. And Pepita didn’t need any guidance now. She flew straight for the river, and within ten minutes Imelda’s shoes were touching down on familiar mud. Pepita mewled when Imelda strayed from her side, and Imelda clucked a comfort and rubbed the alebrije’s nose. “Go home,” she urged. “I’ll be just fine.” She started out into Shantytown without looking back, and after a moment she heard the great  _ whump _ of wings as Pepita took off. 

She would have headed to Daniel straight away, but as well as she was getting to know the pathways crisscrossing the river, she wasn’t quite at that level yet. She would have to go to Héctor’s first if she wanted even a chance of finding the boy. Maybe if she ran into someone she recognized then she could ask the way. 

Or maybe she would have to swallow her pride a little and go to Héctor. She didn’t feel in the wrong, wanting to be here, but she wasn’t entirely in the right. There were those who wouldn’t want her here. But when she was unwelcome now but welcome when it came to feeding the children or attending a dance, how could she toe the line without some sort of guidance? 

It wasn’t fair for Héctor to drag her into his life only to suddenly shut her out without warning. 

The setting sun was being replaced by fires as she made her way to the familiar hut. She walked heavily, so he would be sure to hear her approach. She stopped outside the hut, hand paused halfway to the blanket entrance. “Héctor?” she called, and waited. 

He wasn’t long, pulling the blanket aside and staring down at her without expression, a strange and somehow awful set of his face, wiped clean of emotion. “Imelda. I thought you went home.” 

“I did.” She adjusted her apron strings. “I went home, told them I would be gone the night, and came back.” 

A small, sad smile quirked in the corner of his mouth, and then he placed a hand over his eyes. “Ay, Imelda, why did I expect anything else? Please come in. You forgot your basket earlier.” 

He disappeared back inside and she followed. And yes indeed, there was her basket, barely visible in the fading light. She stooped to pick it up and nestled it back in the crook of her elbow. Héctor was busy pulling his guitar from the box of straw. He must have felt her eyes because he turned as he stood with the instrument in his hands. The fires being lit across the water gleamed off the white wood. “In case he wakes up,” Héctor said quietly. “I can try to put him back to sleep.” 

He didn’t seem eager to bring their spat up at all, so Imelda just nodded and waited for him to tune the guitar. When he was satisfied, he met her eyes once more. “Let’s go.” 

Even if he didn’t bring up the fight, Héctor didn’t offer her his arm or hand as they left his shack and began back towards where Daniel was being housed. True, he was carrying the guitar, but they’d managed to make it work before. Imelda trailed along behind him, fiddling with her basket. She’d be the one who had to bring it up again, she knew. Héctor had always liked to pretend that fights had never happened at all, to return to normal with all smiles and easy compromises. But at least for the next few hours, she could try to do that too, for Daniel’s sake. 

There was even more of a crowd around the shack than there had been that afternoon. More people drawn by the feel of approaching death, perhaps? Héctor didn’t even need to clear his throat for people to part the way for him, though. A few reached out and plucked at his clothes, and he leaned in and whispered a few words to them before moving on. Imelda followed in his wake and kept her eyes fixed firmly on Héctor’s back. She was scared to see the scorn and rejection she was sure must be on their faces.

And then she was inside the shack, looking down at the little boy wrapped up in blankets, asleep, with golden sparks playing at the markings around his eyes. There were several other adults she didn’t recognize, one of them kneeling on the floor with Daniel’s hand in his. They all looked up when Héctor and Imelda entered. Some nodded. Some waved a little. Others just returned their gaze to Daniel. Héctor sat down carefully and gestured for Imelda to join him on the bare spot of floor not occupied by the various candles lighting the room. “How is he?” he asked at large. 

“Restless for a while, but last hour he hasn’t woken,” the man holding Daniel’s hand answered. “But it’s good you’re here.” 

Héctor nodded and settled in place. His eyes wandered to Imelda and he tried to smile. Didn’t truly succeed, but he tried. It was enough. Imelda responded by shuffling a little closer, until she was pressed against him with one supportive hand on his shoulder. Her basket was awkward on her arm and she felt foolish for bringing it. She’d done it automatically, with the food she’d saved specifically for Daniel tucked away beneath the cloth, running on some foolish notion that maybe when she came back, he would be better. He would want to eat and gain energy and go play ball with the other children. He couldn’t really die, not now, not yet, not without her being able to do something to stop it. Mamá Imelda was always able to make things better. 

But not here. Not now. Not when faced with something like the final death. 

This child really was going to die, right in front of her, and there was nothing she could do.

Imelda turned her head into Héctor’s shoulder, hid her face in his arm. She felt him watching her as she bit down hard to keep her emotions in check, and then he freed one hand from the guitar to rub up and down her back, pulling her even closer with the soothing motion. She longed to scream, to beat her fists against the floor, to track down whoever it was in the living world who was letting Daniel be forgotten and make them atone for it, but the first two wouldn’t do any good and the last was impossible. It was all she could do to keep curled to Héctor’s side, watching as the sparks came in waves over the boy’s body, shaking his limbs and illuminating the tent in gold that was made all the more awful for its beauty. No one spoke, they barely moved, and the crowd outside was quiet as well. Imelda never could have guessed there were dozens of skeletons if not more waiting on the walkway just beyond the curtained door. 

Time blurred. At one point, after a particularly violent spasm of light, Daniel opened his eyes blearily and stared around the room. Finally his gaze settled on the man holding his hand. “Cousin Gerardo?”

The man leaned forward and pushed Daniel’s hair from his forehead. “Yes, Danny, it’s me.”

Another shock of light. A sob pushed itself out of Daniel’s mouth. “It hurts. Cousin Gerardo, it hurts, it hurts…” 

“Hey, hey, miho…” Héctor left Imelda’s side with a light pat to her shoulder and crawled across Daniel’s blankets until he was seated right beside him, opposite from Gerardo. “Let’s stop the hurting, okay? Okay?” He was squished up against Daniel’s pillows and the other skeletons in the shack, so much so he could barely get the guitar in position to play it. “You know this one, I think.” He plucked at a few guitar strings experimentally, and then began to play a melody Imelda didn’t really recognize. The words, when he began to sing, weren’t familiar either.

_ “Pin Pon es un muñeco _

_ muy guapo de cartón, _

_ se lava su carita _

_ con agua y con jabón…” _

But Daniel must have known the song, because he smiled faintly and lifted his hands to his cheeks— _ he will wash his face with soap and water— _ but his hands dropped halfway through the verse, and his eyes fell shut once more. Asleep again. Héctor finished the song regardless, and then kept playing gentle tunes, little lullabies that some of the other skeletons would sing along in scratchy voices until the song shifted. The sparks came more and more frequently, and eventually Héctor stopped playing and sighed deeply before standing and returning to Imelda’s side. She opened her arms to him automatically, and he accepted her shelter, a tangle of bony limbs with guitar awkward between them. “Not long now,” he whispered to her, and Imelda tightened her jaw and nodded. So they sat and watched the tiny figure surrounded by blankets turn gold like the very sun had taken residence inside him, and then Daniel’s entire body relaxed as with a sigh and—Imelda couldn’t hold back a gasp at seeing it for the first time—began to disappear into a mist of golden sparks, floating up into the air, carried on an invisible breeze. Héctor’s arms around her waist tightened as she craned her neck back to watch the mist slip away through the loose rafters of the hut, and when she looked back down, all that was left of Daniel was a slight imprint where he had been lying. Her hand came up to cover her mouth as all the others in the shack bowed their heads in silence. Outside, it was completely silent as well. Imelda wondered if the golden breeze had been seen by those waiting on the boardwalk,  The remains of a life—a soul—drifting out into the night sky towards the moon. Just a moment of sparkling light. And then when an errant hand brushed against the pillows and jostled them out of place, it was as if the little boy had never existed at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! (Yes, I know, I just killed a kid.) Still, I hope you look forward to the next chapter~
> 
> Just as a little note: if you liked this chapter, maybe you could consider donating a coffee to help me pay some bills~  
> It would mean a lot to me, would help me keep writing fanfiction for free, and the link is right in the sidebar of my [blog](http://www.ruisninomiya.tumblr.com). No pressure though, I know we all have our bills to take care of. 
> 
> See you all on Friday!


	10. Chapter 10

They held hands on the way back to Héctor’s hut. It would have seemed ridiculous not to, to let some silly argument get in the way of the comfort they both needed. Héctor held the blanket entrance back for her and Imelda, in turn, took the guitar and felt her way to the box of straw so she could lay the instrument down, her basket beside. She glanced over to where Héctor had gravitated to the open wall. The river was quiet now, no one dancing or drinking around the fires which sputtered and died without attention, and almost all the light they had was the moon and stars and that reflection upon the water. Héctor sighed as he leaned against the wooden beams, one arm crossing his body to hold tight to the other. Imelda approached, but stopped a good ways back. “Héctor?” 

A noncommittal grunt. 

“Is it...always like this?” 

A single shoulder shrug. “In the end? Yes.” 

Just a mist, a bare suggestion of existence that disappeared so quickly. At least in life there was a body left behind, something tangible, proof that there had been life there once, that the person had been real. At least there was something to grieve over. Here there was nothing. It made the final death feel so much...more. Like everything Daniel had been in soul and spirit had winked out of existence for good. No realm beyond the Land of the Dead waiting for him. Just gone. 

She supposed they hadn’t decided to call it the final death for nothing. 

And soon it would happen to Héctor. His bones would dissolve into that golden mist she couldn’t even try to capture with her fingers and he would drift away from her, gone forever. No proof he had ever existed, except perhaps a torn picture and a melody lingering on the breeze. 

Dear God, what had she done? 

“Héctor?” she asked again, and couldn’t keep the plea from her voice. He turned around to face her and his eyes widened. In two long strides he was there, folding her into his arms. She clenched her fists in his vest and tried to steady her breathing. His fingers ran soothing lines up and down her back, catching briefly at every vertebrae. 

“I didn’t want you to see it,” he finally mumbled into her hair. “I just—wanted you home. Not here.” 

“I hope...I hope people weren’t too angry with me,” she whispered. “I just had to be there.” 

He leaned away to peer down at her. “Why would people be angry?” 

It was her turn to look confused. “I thought...I thought that was why you didn’t want me here? You said this wasn’t for me. Because I’m remembered, right? People would be angry...about…” 

“I...oh…” 

His shifty expression told her everything. “They don’t care, do they?” she asked flatly. “ _ You _ didn’t want me here so you lied.” 

He pulled from her grip, probably a good idea. “I didn’t lie. I just...didn’t want you to see that.” 

She ground her teeth together for a moment and finally said, “That wasn’t for you to decide.” 

“No, it wasn’t,” he agreed easily and reached up to rub at a temple. A headache? His face was twisted with pain. “But it’s hard, Imelda. It’s...very hard. I wanted to spare you that.” 

She could get angry. She could get furious. Except she was so tired, and he didn’t look much better. Maybe anger wasn’t the solution here. Imelda fiddled with her apron strings as she thought and then she walked over to his side. “Does it always hurt so much?” she asked softly. 

“Sí” he answered without hesitation. She turned to study his face lit by moonlight. His eyes seemed much darker than usual. “You’d think it would get easier, but it never does. It always hurts this much.” He cleared his throat and twanged a suspender. “Your family will be worried.” 

“You’re trying to send me home again,” she murmured, and something in her voice made him drop the topic immediately. They both stood staring at the sky until finally Imelda sighed and shuffled over so Héctor put his arm around her. “He didn’t glow,” she said, and threaded their fingers together on her shoulder. “I thought he might glow, the way you did.” 

He blinked down at her. “I glowed?” 

“For three days. And then the glow faded and you woke up.”

He hummed and shifted his weight to the other leg, the one that wasn’t broken. “Well...special case.” 

Imelda sighed and shut her eyes against the night. She did rather want to go home now. She wanted to dive into her bed and never come out. She wanted to make shoes again, to forget herself in shoes the way she was so used to doing. She wanted to see her family, whole and white-boned and in no danger of leaving her, not for a very long time. 

She wanted to drag Héctor after her, like taking him away from this place would be enough to fix him, to keep him here, to keep him hers, even when the final death tried to steal him away. And all the other children too. Let her take them, let her keep them safe. Let her remember them enough to make up for the way the living world was failing them. 

Let her be able to do something. Anything. Anything to keep from feeling so utterly helpless, a helium balloon cut free in the wind, a paper boat sent down a rapid river. 

She whirled around to face him again. “I don’t want to leave you alone.” 

He sighed and tugged his hat over the upper half of his face. “Imelda, I am going to be very unpleasant to be around today. don’t think I’m what you need right now.” 

Imelda clenched her hands tight, squeezing his fingers with the one hand. “It doesn’t matter about me, it matters...it matters…” She bit at her lip and then reached up with her free hand to flick his hat up so she could meet his eyes. “Do you want me here?” she asked. “I know I tracked you down when you didn’t want me to, but I thought...I suppose I thought we both enjoyed each other’s company.” 

Héctor went very still beside her, but the furrow in his brow let her know he was trying to put his words together the right way. 

“I wish you would go home to your family,” he mumbled, but it was just a filler until he had the proper words and they both knew it. Finally he snagged his hand back from her grip and sat down carefully, feet in the water. He kicked up reflections of the stars, beginning to fade into dawn. 

“I thought I didn’t,” he answered finally, before Imelda could get really impatient, and tugged the hat off his head so he could fiddle with the straw. “I thought I could just...return out here and forget. You, Coco, Miguel...everyone. But I couldn’t.” He stopped kicking his legs and leaned over the water, far enough to see his own reflection. He laughed harshly and slapped a hand over his eyes. “But then you came, and I couldn’t say no to you coming back. I could have. But I didn’t. Because I want you here.” His voice wobbled and Imelda fell down beside him, arms wrapped around his torso. “I don’t know what I’d do if you stopped coming,” he admitted in a softer voice. “Which is selfish, because soon I won’t be able to meet you when you arrive or help you back to shore. I won’t be able to stand. I’ll lay on the blanket and not even be able to offer you a story in exchange for being there.” He drew in a shuddering breath and then let it out slowly. His hand dropped from his eyes and he stared blankly at the reflection of the moon. “I left in the first place because I was being selfish and prideful. I didn’t want you to watch me wither away. And now I’m being selfish in a different way, because I don’t—”  His voice caught and fell away, and Imelda shut her eyes as she tightened her arms around him. “I don’t want to die alone,” Héctor whispered, confession nearly lost upon the water. 

“Oh,  _ Héctor _ ,” she breathed, and pulled him to her breast just as sunlight broke across the river, golden like lost souls.  

 

* * *

 

Hours passed, until it was properly morning and the moon and stars had been replaced by an unforgiving sun. Imelda was sore from sitting with Héctor in her arms for so long, but she couldn’t regret it. There had been nothing romantic about the way they’d clung to each other. They were simply desperate people, searching for a respite that might not even be there. Imelda still wasn’t sure if she’d found it or not. She winced when she sat up straight and grabbed his hat from the floor to flop back on his head. “Should I...should I be back? Tomorrow?” 

He propped the brim of his hat up with one finger to regard her. “You’re tired.” 

Yes, she was. Exhausted. “I want to be here,” she answered regardless. “I’ll rest today and be back tomorrow. Like usual. Besides, the children will miss their lunch if I don’t come.” 

After a moment he fixed his hat how he liked it and nodded. “Let me walk you to shore.” 

The walkways were practically deserted as they went, and anyone they encountered was quiet, barely managed a nod. It was a ghost town, full of dying skeletons, all mourning the loss of a child. It reminded Imelda of Saint Cecilia whenever a wave of sickness rolled through, taking the babes and children with it. The tiny little coffins being buried in the cemetery, with little tombstones engraved with dates far too close together. The mothers pale and wane, wandering through town as if on script, collecting food like a puppet with all the strings cut. Coco had caught fever once, not long after Imelda began making shoes, and Imelda had spent every moment by her bedside, forbade anyone from visiting in case they brought the sickness with them, until the fever broke and Coco was vibrant with life once more. 

But there was no comfort to offer here. Once at the edge of Shantytown, Imelda pressed herself into Héctor’s arms once more, and he relaxed into her touch, hands on her waist and his face tucked into her neck. Was he shivering or was she? Imelda couldn’t tell. She stepped away and cupped his face with both hands. “I’ll be back,” she whispered, and waited for him to nod before she turned and started up the staircase, beneath the great arch, back into the city. She glanced over her shoulder once, but Héctor had already disappeared. 

It took her much longer to reach home than normal, a combination of exhaustion and lack of effort. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt so genuinely tired. She’d felt it back when Héctor was lying in the guest bedroom hovering between death and something worse, but watching Daniel die had hacked away at something inside her. Something she couldn’t be sure would come back. She finally got to the house as the others were starting up the workshop and preparing breakfast. Pepita was anxiously circling up on the rooftop, no doubt making Julio very nervous. He’d never really taken to Pepita. But the alebrije perked up when Imelda appeared on the road and then settled with a great thump and a mewl. Imelda clucked out a comfort and let herself in the kitchen door. 

Rosita was humming as she took a pie out of the oven, but she nearly dropped it when Imelda slouched inside. “Mamá Imelda!” 

Imelda waved her away before she could even come close. “I’m fine. Just tired. I’ll be in my room.” She knew she looked awful. Drained and hunched, with the mud of the river stuck to her shoes. She couldn’t be bothered to wash it off like she usually did. She left Rosita standing stunned with a hand over her mouth and made her way towards the stairs as fast as she could. Luckily, the men would be in the workshop by now. And so should—

No, there was Victoria, with a notebook in her hands and a pen scratching over the paper in quick, efficient motions. She glanced up sharply at the sound of Imelda’s boots on the staircase. 

“Mamá Imelda?” 

Imelda winced and stopped her hasty ascent. “Good morning, Victoria.” 

Victoria raised one hand to adjust her spectacles and blinked. “Is...are you alright?” 

“I—” Imelda started, and then caught the look in Victoria’s eye. Somehow awfully knowing. Not malicious, but aware. “I’m not feeling well,” she said, knowing that this, at least, was the truth. “If you have any trouble please come to me, but otherwise I would like to be left alone today.” 

Victoria nodded and clutched her notebook a little closer to her chest. “Of course.” She turned in the direction of the workshop as Imelda completed the journey up the stairs and into her room. Once there, she locked the doors and went to collapse on her bed. She hugged a pillow tight to her chest, wished it was Héctor, wished it was Daniel, wished it was Emilia, wished it was her own sweet Coco a happy child once more. She fell asleep to the memory of Coco warm and safe in her arms, and woke hours later to the nightmare of Héctor turning to dust between her fingers.

 

* * *

 

The next morning on her way to the river, Imelda made sure to pick up extra treats for the children. She wasn’t sure how the Shantytown adults went about telling the children that one of them was gone for good, but glazed rolls, bottles of milk, and cantaloupe would go over well and lift their spirits. It had to. She needed to hold her basket with both hands by the time she reached Shantytown, and Héctor was watching with amusement as he detached from the shadow of the archway and made his way up to meet her. “Would you like me to take that?” 

“I can manage.” 

“Without falling into the water?” To her surprise, Héctor grinned, gold tooth flashing in the early morning sun. She hadn’t expected to see him smile. But there he was, and Imelda made a concession to her pride. She wouldn’t be able to manage some of the downhill climbs and jumps with the basket in hand. She passed it over and he lifted her napkin to see what was inside. “Oh, you’ve been holding out on me!” 

She slapped at his prying fingers. “Nosy.” 

“Sí,” he agreed far too easily, and lagged behind while she set the pace towards his hut. The river was not as dormant as she’d thought, only two days after Daniel’s death. There were the groups of women gathered to gossip or hang their feet in the river. There were men and women both who called out to Imelda and Héctor both as they passed. Imelda managed tight smiles and little hand waves in response, but one glance over her shoulder at Héctor’s soft and surprised expression told her it was good enough for now. She hiked up her skirts and apron for the climbs downward, and soon enough they were pushing aside the blanketed entrance to Héctor’s shack. Imelda immediately went to the open wall and watched the far away figures on the boardwalk go about their daily business. She heard Héctor set the basket down with a thump and a small groan, and then he joined her by her side, hands pressed to his lower spine. 

“Everything seems normal,” she admitted. 

Héctor hummed and answered in a soft voice, “The final death isn’t uncommon here. Even for a child. It’s easier, to pretend everything really is the same.” 

Imelda frowned. “How are the children?”

He shrugged. “They don’t completely understand he’s gone. They know that their cousins disappear all the time, and some get more nosy than others, but in the end, we just say he’s gone. Gone somewhere else.”

“Somewhere better?”

“Just…” He sighed, spine drooping like an underwatered daisy. “...somewhere else.”  

Imelda studied the water and tried to think of how she’d thought of death, at various points in her life. True, she probably had thought of it as ‘going somewhere else’ as a child. Her teenage years had cemented a more firm idea of some sort of life beyond life, a true somewhere else that her loved ones could travel back from once a year. She’d believed in that world enough that it wasn’t a huge shock to wake up dead. But there was no belief like that in the Land of the Dead. Oh sure, there was a belief in God for many, but no real assurance that the final death was simply the journey to Heaven. Everything was all muddled, religion and God and the afterlife all tangled up together to the point the final death was feared and scorned and the forgotten pushed out onto the river so they couldn’t serve as reminders of that inevitable finality of the known. 

What did Héctor believe? When the time came, what did he think would happen to his soul? 

“I’d like to find the children,” Imelda announced, more to interrupt her own chain of thought than anything. Héctor waved a hand vaguely towards the door. 

“They’ll come.” 

Still, she couldn’t stay in this hut for much longer without drowning in the helplessness of the situation. Imelda brushed a hand along Héctor’s arm before walking towards the door. She emerged into the sunlight and shaded her eyes. By now she knew the best places to hide, the widest walkways to play ball on. And the children knew to look for the color of her dress. She took her time wandering through Shantytown. Even if she got lost, the children would bring her back to Héctor’s, no fail. And she felt better out in the fresh air. 

“Cousin Imelda!” There was the thud of bare feet on wood, and Imelda turned to see Grace, the girl from the party, running up to her with a smile. “Imelda!” Grace repeated when she stopped and placed her hands on her hips in a saucy manner. “Where’s your man? Writing love songs?” 

Contemplating the disappearance of his soul, more likely, she could answer. But Grace’s smile was a welcome escape from that. Imelda smiled back best she could. “No, he liked to save that back for when he needed to go to work.” 

Grace snorted and easily linked her arm through Imelda’s. “Come, you should meet some of the others.” 

“Others? I was looking for the—”

“The children, I know, we know, we appreciate what you do,” Grace assured as she began to tug Imelda along. “They get into so much more mischief with food in their bellies. Or...wherever food goes.” She laughed again. “It’s still morning. You have time.” 

For what? But the answer became clear enough when Imelda spotted the group of women huddled together, some in chairs, others standing, and a few with their legs in the water. She would be expected to gossip. “Grace…” Imelda muttered, and tried to pull away. She had never been good at gossiping. It had seemed so pointless and endlessly trite at her mother’s formal gatherings, even more silly when she was with Héctor and spent most of her time with him, and then simply absurd to consider when she was trying to raise Coco alone and keep the shoe shop afloat. She knew most of the gossip had been about her anyways. 

“It’s fine, we don’t bite,” Grace whispered, giving Imelda’s arm a little reassuring squeeze, and then she waved to the women and called, “Look who I found!” 

“Imelda!” “Cousin Imelda!” “There you are! How are you?” Imelda was startled by the warm reception. She’d never talked to any of these women outside of Grace, had she? Maybe she’d seen them at the dance or waved to them when she was walking with Héctor once, but nothing to deserve the way she was folded into the center of the group. 

“Your dress is beautiful,” a younger woman exclaimed while Grace pulled up a crate for Imelda and her to share as a seat. Her hand reached for the hem and then hesitated. Imelda studied the woman’s face and then twitched her dress against her fingers. 

“Thank you. It does get heavy sometimes, though.” 

Another woman, more around Imelda’s age judging by the grey hairs, scoffed a little, fondly. “You could lose the apron.” And then a wink. “Or wear that pretty thing you had on the other night.”

“Your husband would appreciate  _ that _ ,” another voice joined in, and they all laughed before the conversation seamlessly blended into the new young couple who had appeared at the bank of the river the other day and had just moved into Enrique’s old hut. They would need to have a welcome reception or something, anything to help the newly forgotten feel a little more welcome. Everyone started that way at first, didn’t they? Sure that the river was where they belonged, but unsure of how to go about it. Sneaking into abandoned homes like they were in danger of being kicked out. Yes, a welcome reception, with gifts if they could! But what gifts? Something useful. Useless things didn’t last long out in Shantytown. If they were new they probably had decent clothing. It was the years of running around the wooden planks and scrambling up and down the crazy Shantytown layout that left tears and stains that would never come out. So not clothes. Alcohol might give the young couple the wrong impression. 

“What about food?” Imelda suggested, so quiet at first only Grace and a few others heard. 

“Yes, what about food?” the young woman who had studied her dress piped up. “I can’t remember the last time I had something good to eat!” 

The idea of food for an offering gift seemed completely foreign. How would they afford it? Maybe if they pooled resources…

“My daughter-in-law can make something nice,” Imelda volunteered, and immediately regretted it with all the eyes that swivelled her way. 

“You’d do that?” Grace asked at last, sounding absolutely delighted, and Imelda felt something in her twist. The stern mother in her wanted to ask why none of these women bothered working so they could barter for food. The more observant and compassionate part of her reminded her that without offerings from the ofrenda, she never would have had the leverage to get the shoe shop started. Her family’s wealth and good standing was reliant on the offerings from the living world and the shoes they were able to produce as a result, but these women probably bartered away everything they could stand to lose a long time ago. How could they weave baskets or embroider pillowcases without straw or thread? How could they trade for a meal with nothing to give in return? 

“Of course I would do that,” she answered firmly. “How about some pies?” Rosita had been making pie the other day, hadn’t she?

The conversation dissolved into reminiscing about pie—what flavor was best, which fruits would be ripe this time in the land of the living, what tips and tricks each woman had to pass on to Rosita through Imelda. Their wistful voices as they discussed flaky crusts and succulent fruit made Imelda determined to bring pies enough for all of them one of these days. And then she might as well be feeding every single resident of Shantytown, but she didn’t care. She’d do it. These people did not deserve to face the final death on empty stomachs. 

Eventually she excused herself and went to find the children, feeling oddly uplifted. She hadn’t been terrible at gossiping. They hadn’t hated her. In fact, she’d felt more than welcomed into the group, so much so she’d found herself promising to come by again next time she was in Shantytown, hopefully with pie to go surprise the new young couple with. 

The children were easy enough to gather. They came flocking as she walked, or were found in usual hiding spots. They were more subdued than she was used to, and she picked up one of the youngest girls to cradle her close as they returned to Héctor’s hut, some children running ahead and others following her like baby ducklings. Emilia walked with a hand fisted in Imelda’s dress, casually discussing the outcomes of their ballgame yesterday. 

Héctor had slapped on a new face by the time she returned, all smiles as he spun the children around and roughhoused with them in the confines of the hut. Never once did that mask slip, not while Imelda handed around glazed rolls and bottles of milk, not while she sliced up the cantaloupe with the dull knife she usually kept in the basket for cheese, not while the children ate the fruit and sucked the juices from their fingers. Imelda settled against a wall and Héctor joined her after a few minutes, watching the children eat. Wordlessly, she sliced another piece of cantaloupe and held it to his mouth. He raised a brow but opened his mouth obediently and swallowed the bit of fruit down, did the same when she offered a second piece. By then, some of the children were done eating and were looking for something to do, mainly get into mischief. 

“Hey, hey, no…” Héctor rose to scoot one of the boys away from the corner where he slept. The boy stuck out his bottom lip and pointed to the guitar in its box. Héctor glanced over at Imelda, and there it was—the mask shifted, just for a few seconds before it was back in place. “Not today,” Héctor said, and grinned as he held out his hands. “I have to take breaks, or my fingers will wear away and fall off.” 

Their mouths dropped open. “Really?” one little boy asked. 

“Would I lie to you?” Héctor wiggled his fingers in their direction. “They’ll be cut right in half by the strings.” 

There were delighted gasps all around. “Cool!” “Show us, show us!” “Let me try!” 

Héctor shot Imelda an exasperated look and she held up a hand to hide her smile. “Go play outside!” she called, and she received an even more exasperated look when the children nodded and followed her instructions right away, scampering out the door with the scuffle of many little feet. “It’s all in the posture,” she told Héctor primly. “Proper posture leads to a more authoritative disposition.” 

“So that’s what your trick has been all this time, eh?” Héctor grinned and straightened his drooping shoulders. “That would explain a lot.” 

There was a shriek and splash from outside. “Go,” Imelda urged him. “I’ll clean up lunch.” Héctor tipped his hat her way before trotting over to the door and ducking beyond the blanket. She could hear him organizing some sort of game while she brushed up crumbs and wiped up a small puddle of spilt milk. The mindless cleaning gave her time to think about how she should approach the pie situation with Rosita. It should be Rosita. She enjoyed baking much more than anyone else in the household. It was a pity Imelda didn’t often pull together the raw ingredients for her to use. Something she could change, perhaps, if she was able to bring Rosita’s creations to more residents of Shantytown. But suddenly asking for a dozen pies would certainly set off some alarms, as if she wasn’t being suspicious enough already. What sort of lie would she be forced to tell now? 

By the time she made her way outside, a ball had been procured and a game of football started on the walkways with piles of junk for makeshift goals. Of course, the ball had a very slim chance of actually staying on the path, but that just made it better, the children screaming and cannonballing into the river to retrieve the ball before the other team could. Héctor had obviously been pulled into the water once or twice already, standing midway between the goals and calling fouls with clothes sopping wet. When he heard her approach, he turned and grinned. “Come to join? Which team do you prefer? I think it was Lions—”

“Jaguars!” a girl corrected him as she ran past with the ball between her feet, and growled for effect. 

“Sorry, the Jaguars, and the Scorpions!” He spread his arms wide with a prideful smile. “So far I don’t think a goal has been scored and all of them have touched the ball with their hands, so right now the Scorpions are winning on fouls alone but it’s a pretty tie game.” 

“And how many points did they get for dunking you?” She took his outstretched arm and tucked it closer to her. Did it immediately soak her dress? Yes. But she didn’t care. 

“I don’t think any amount of points are worth the joy they get out of pushing me in.” He tilted his head towards hers with a little grin. “But I wonder how long it will take for you to be a target too. Posture can only get you so far.”

Imelda eyed up the nearest child, a scruffy little one missing one of his front teeth. “They wouldn’t dare.” 

“See, that’s what they all say…” She glared at him and he laughed—loud and full, the way he had in life—before slipping his arm around her waist. “If we go in, we go in together.” 

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t—” And then the little girl ran screaming into Héctor’s legs with the ball held above her head in both hands, and all three of them went toppling into the water.

 

* * *

 

Imelda’s dress, as she had told the women earlier that day, was indeed incredibly heavy. She’d needed Héctor’s help just to get out of the water, and by then all the children had made a run for it, except for the little girl who’d pushed them in, who’d been trapped in Héctor’s spare arm, looking dejected. Héctor’s version of a disciplinary lecture completely lacked conviction, however, and the girl escaped halfway through, leaving wet little footprints behind. She left Imelda and Héctor alone outside his hut, both soaking wet. “Here.” Héctor spun a finger about. “Let me…” 

Imelda turned and felt him work at the knot in her apron string. It didn’t come easy so wet, but eventually the apron fell to the wooden planks with a squelch. “Thank you,” she murmured, and started trying to wring her dress out. Héctor stripped off his vest and set it out to dry. 

“I...I would offer you something dry to wear but…” 

Imelda shook her head. “It’s fine.” If she sat in the sun through the afternoon, she should dry off alright. She went to sit where she could lean back against his hut and spread out her skirts as best she could. Héctor joined her after a moment, looking slightly embarrassed. Imelda let them sit in silence for a few minutes before she turned her back slightly in his direction. “My hair won’t dry all braided up. Would you please—?” 

A deep-seated contentment settled on his face, from what she could see out of the corner of her eye. “Of course.” His fingers were ever so gentle as he pulled the ribbons from her hair and combed it out so it fell across her shoulders. And he didn’t seem eager to stop, even after her hair was unbraided and free. He just kept running the strands through his fingers. Imelda shut her eyes, felt the sun on her bones, his careful touch, the rough wood beneath her. It was perfect, though she wouldn’t admit it aloud. She didn’t even mind her brief dunk in the river. 

“I’m going to bring pies next time,” she told Héctor after a while. “Can you get someone to help carry them when I get here?” 

His fingers didn’t pause combing through her hair. “What about before you get here?” 

She shrugged one shoulder. “A wheelbarrow, perhaps.” How unlike her to not have a plan. 

“A wheelbarrow,” he repeated dryly. 

“Yes, perhaps.” 

Héctor sighed. “I’ll come help you. How many pies are we talking about here?” 

Imelda frowned and rustled her dress so a different section would catch the sun. “You don’t have to come. People are looking for you.”

“I walked you home after the party and everything was fine. So I’ll come again.” 

“That was the middle of the night!” 

“I can wear a costume if it would make you feel better.” He was grinning. She could hear it in his voice. She sighed deeply, just to let him know how much she disapproved. 

“I’m not sure how many pies. Originally it was just one, for that new couple that just moved in. But then everyone was talking so happily about pies and I—” 

“You’re bringing pies for  _ everyone _ ?” His hands stopped moving in her hair. “Imelda, I don’t...think this is a good idea.”

“It’s just pie!” she scoffed. 

“Not the pie,” he replied, voice soft. “First the children, and now there’s these pies, and I have no idea what you’ll be doing next. Shoes for everyone?” 

That was a good idea, actually. “What’s wrong with me caring?” she demanded, turning so she could see his face. “Nobody else seems to!”

“Yes, for a good reason!” he snapped back, arms crossing. “Everyone here is dying, Imelda. Pie won’t solve that.” 

She narrowed her eyes, hands clenching. “I’m not trying to solve anything. It’s just pie.” 

Héctor scoffed. “Yes, for all of Shantytown! You...you…” He made a frustrated sound and stood up to pace along the walkway. “You probably won’t disappear for decades. You know how many people here will die in those decades? You’ll be saying goodbye to thousands and thousands of souls. Do you have any idea what that does to a person?” His voice strangled on the last word, his hands wrenching at his suspenders, and suddenly the annoyance in his voice turned to desperation, frantic and pleading. “Do you know what it does? To have everyone you know die again and again and again? There’s a good reason I didn’t want you to see Daniel die. It isn’t nice, Imelda. It’s...it’s awful and it’s lonely...” He stopped, stared at her with face slack before pulling his hat down to hide his expression and rushing into the hut. 

Imelda sat in the afternoon sun, eyes wide and mouth open in shock. 

_ Do you have any idea what that does to a person? _

Suddenly, Héctor’s attempt to make her stay home while Daniel died made much more sense. It was much more than the death of a child. It was the endless cycle of death that he was scared to introduce her to. Because after so many decades living among the forgotten, of watching his friends—no, his _ family _ out upon the river—how many people had Héctor watched slip through his fingers, golden dust never to return?

She hadn’t even thought about it.  

Imelda shook her dress out the best she could and followed Héctor into the hut, moving cautiously. It wasn’t a surprise to see he had taken out his guitar, and was gently strumming his unknown melody. The tension in his body evaporated with the song. 

“Héctor,” she spoke above the guitar. He shut his eyes and nodded. 

“I will help you with the pies. Just tell me when I should be at your home.” 

She sat near him and began to braid her hair up once more. He didn’t offer any more explanation on what he’d said. He didn’t even look up from the guitar. He was so stubborn that way. “Alright,” she agreed. “You’ll help me with the pies.” 

His mouth quirked up on one side to acknowledge her words, and then it might as well have been just him and the guitar in the hut. Imelda stood and leaned against the wall for a while, but her dress was still heavy with water, and she left him for the sun. 

He was right. Pie wouldn’t actually solve anything. Imelda covered her face with her hand as she sat against the hut once more. Nothing could solve this. She could bring food, but little boys would still disappear. She could love Héctor, but it would not save him. 

But she didn’t know what else to do. 

Eventually the sun began to set and she asked Héctor to walk her to shore. He was his usual jovial self when encountering his cousins, but the space between the two of them was taut, fragile. Héctor brought her to the edge of the river and unhooked their arms. His fingers tapped a melody against his bones. 

“Before sunrise then?” she asked to confirm and he nodded. 

“Before sunrise.” Tap tap-tap tap tap-tap. He didn’t seem eager to add to that. 

“You don’t need to protect me,” she said after a long silence, hands bunching in her damp apron. “I can take care of myself. I can care for the people here too.” 

Héctor’s fingers paused their rhythm. “Of course you can,” he agreed after a moment, and managed a small smile, but it felt off. She could tell he didn’t mean what he said, not really. But he was already backing off, turning away. “Goodnight Imelda,” he murmured, and walked back out across the water until he was just a dark shadow she could barely see beyond the arch, and then he was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and for leaving kudos and comments! And if you think this chapter was worth a coffee, I'd appreciate the support very much if you want to follow the link at my [blog](http://www.ruisninomiya.tumblr.com).~  
> See you next week!


	11. Chapter 11

Rosita didn’t have words when Imelda came to her the next day with the raw ingredients for at least twelve pies, including apples and blueberries and ofrenda-fresh peaches. “Is there a special occasion?” she asked at last, sounding breathless. 

“No,” Imelda answered as she replaced her leather apron for a cloth one. “I simply have a few friends to give gifts to, and your baking expertise would be appreciated.” She eyed Rosita up. “And your discretion.” 

It wasn’t Rosita’s fault, of course, that come midday everybody in the Rivera house knew about the massive pie production going on in the kitchen. The aromas coming from the oven were impossible to ignore. “Not. For. You,” Imelda scolded her brothers, emphasizing each word with a threatening brandish of her wooden spoon. Rosita was happier than Imelda could remember her being for many years, hair white with flour and up to her elbows in dough. 

“Well if they’re not for us—” “—then who are they for?” the twins wheedled, and Imelda chased them from the room altogether. 

“None of your business!” 

Julio and Victoria stuck their heads into the kitchen a few times during the day as pie production continued. Julio stared at Imelda like she’d gone mad. Victoria adjusted her glasses, blinked, asked a question about gold-coated aglets, and left. By the time the sun was setting, there were thirteen pies lined up along the windowsills, the counter, and a chair they’d had to steal to have enough space. Staring at them, Imelda was suddenly very grateful that Héctor would be coming the next morning to help her carry them to Shantytown. 

“Do we have any ingredients left over?” she asked Rosita, who peered around the room with a calculating expression. 

“Maybe one last small apple pie?” she suggested after a moment. Imelda nodded. 

“Can you make one last small apple pie for our family?” 

Rosita smiled, dimples appearing in her cheeks. “Of course, Mamá Imelda, of course! For tonight?” 

Imelda shook her head. “No, you get some rest. For tomorrow, while I’m out. Now, I suppose I should scrape up some dinner?” 

They ate bread with cheese sitting informally around the workshop, and Imelda could tell each one of them was bursting with curiosity. It really wasn’t fair to them, what she was doing. Again, the feeling of being unfaithful to her family rose in her chest, but she beat it back down. Just for a few more months. Just until Héctor died. 

Or would it be? Could she honestly say she would stop visiting Shantytown once her husband passed on? What about lunch for the children, or pies for new arrivals? What about Grace, or Emilia, or any of the other kind souls she had met? How could she say goodbye? 

She would say goodbye when each and every one of them died the final death. That’s what Héctor had been telling her. She’d only be bringing more pain, the more she let them in. 

But at this point, how could she stop?

 

* * *

 

She didn’t sleep that night. She chose instead to curl up with Pepita, and watch for when Héctor arrived. Pepita purred happily under Imelda’s stroking hands, and didn’t even seem upset in the least when Héctor’s lanky form appeared down the road just before dawn. Héctor stopped a good ways from the house and she could see him watching for her, ducking his head and trying to peer in the windows without getting close. Imelda gave Pepita one last pat before starting down the ladder to the ground. Héctor must have heard or seen her, because his gentle hands were there to help her down the final rungs. 

“Are you sure none of your neighbors will think we’re robbers?” he whispered. 

“Pie robbers?” 

“Those are the worst sort,” he replied gravely.

She muffled a laugh in her hands and led him around to the kitchen. She’d left the door unlocked, and opened it very quietly so it would not squeal. She pushed open a window and Héctor popped up outside. 

“Do we have a wheelbarrow? I brought sacks just in case.” 

“They’ll get squished in sacks!” 

“But not in a wheelbarrow? Nobody will care if the pies are a little squished.” 

She sighed and handed him the first pie out the window. “Okay, but pack carefully. Carefully!” 

He took the pie in one hand and saluted with the other before dragging a large sack from where it had been stuffed into his belt. 

“Make sure to sort them according to fruit!” 

“Why?”

She handed another pie across and gave him a withering look. “So the fruits don’t mix, of course.” 

He scoffed. “Imelda, it’s  _ pie _ , nobody is going to care if the apples mix with the kumquats…” 

“Why would we have made a  _ kumquat _ pie?”

“Hey, I try to be open abou—” 

“Imelda?” 

The pie she held slipped through her fingers. Héctor caught it with a small gasp as he ducked below the windowsill. Imelda whirled around to see Óscar and Felipe, both staring at her from the doorway. They wore their matching pinstripe pajamas, though their hats had remained firmly on. Felipe rubbed at his eyes and then withdrew his glasses from his pajama pocket to better scrutinize her with. 

“Is there someone here?” he asked, peering around the kitchen. “We could have sworn—”

“—we heard voices,” Óscar finished, also donning his glasses. “Why is the window open?” 

Imelda could hear Héctor muttering curses under his breath. She glanced around at all the pies and then crossed her arms. “I was airing out the kitchen, of course!” 

They both gave her disbelieving stares. “At this time—” “—of night?” “Or should we say—” “—morning?” 

Imelda uncrossed her arms and tried for a casual lean against the counter. “There was a burnt smell in my room. I thought it might be the pies, so I came down to let some air in.” 

In unison, they raised a brow. 

“Don’t look at me like that!” She flapped her hands in their direction in an attempt at dismissal. “I don’t want this house to burn to a crisp. That’s perfectly normal. Go back to sleep.” 

Óscar only ventured further inside the kitchen and undid the latch on one of the other windows. “We can help.” Felipe came to the window on the same wall as Imelda and carefully pushed it open. If he leaned his head forward even the smallest bit, he would see Héctor out there on the street, with his stolen pies. Imelda didn’t dare move. Please, let him just lean back inside. Please, let them just both go back to bed. 

“Imelda, are you sure you’re alright?” Óscar opened the last window and scurried over to her side. He held a hand to her forehead as if checking for a fever. 

“You do look slightly faint, sister,” Felipe agreed, and scooted over to study her face carefully. “Certainly pale.” 

Her brothers,  _ honestly _ . Imelda rolled her eyes and knocked Óscar’s hand away. “Very funny. If you’re so awake, go to the workshop. I’m sure Victoria is keeping everything on schedule.” 

The twins glanced at each other. “And that might be—” “—the most worrisome symptom of all.” 

She hated playing their game, but couldn’t contain the question. “What is?”  

They nodded at her simultaneously. “Your sudden indifference to shoes!” 

Imelda spluttered. “I am not...I…” What was she? “I just feel like other hobbies lately!”

Felipe hummed. “Yes. Wandering all about the Land of the Dead, meeting with all sorts of colorful people.”

Óscar just looked scandalized. “Shoes? A hobby? Shoes have never been our hobby—it’s a way of life! The one you started yourself!” 

“Ah yes,” Felipe began a little wistfully, “Before you hired us, we—” “—did dream of going to build airplanes—” “—but shoes were probably the more practical choice—” “—looking back on it now.”

Imelda blinked. She hadn’t known that. They’d agreed to work under her at the shop without any hesitation, and she’d always assumed it was because they hadn’t had any other ambitions. Building airplanes?

“But you hate flying!” she blurted, and both sighed. They both did absolutely loathe having to ride Pepita anywhere.

“Yes, an unfortunate fact,” Óscar agreed. “So a good thing we made shoes instead,” Felipe added in a slightly more cheery tone. Imelda stared at them, brow wrinkling. “What?” Óscar asked after a moment. “Something on my face?” Felipe added. 

She sighed and put her hands on her hips. “No, nothing on your face. And there’s nothing wrong with me. I just want a few months to myself, that’s all.”

The twins turned to each other and then back to her, faces twisted with concern. “And you’re sure this—” “—has nothing to do with what happened on—” “Dia de los Muertos?”

_ Or Héctor? _ Their expressions screamed the silent question. Imelda marched across the kitchen and took both of them by the arm, starting to lead them out of the room. “Perhaps I was a bit tired with all that happened. All of those  _ reporters _ and  _ government officials  _ and so-called  _ fans _ .” She spat the words like curses. “So I just need a little while to breathe and relax again. Especially since we all know Coco will be joining us soon.” 

“Ah, yes!” “Darling Coco!” “It will be good to see her again.” Especially since we didn’t get the chance on Dia de los Muertos…” With that, Imelda was able to lead her brothers fairly easily out of the kitchen and get them started towards the workshop. Their own private conversation kicked in as they walked away, and Imelda sighed with relief before hurrying back to the kitchen window. 

“Héctor!” She stuck her head out and looked down. He wasn’t there. “Héctor?” 

“Imelda.” He dropped upside down into view from the roof above, one hand holding his hat to his head. She jumped back a little, startled. He winced. “Sorry. Are they gone?” 

Imelda shook off her fright and reached for another pie. “Yes, but they’re yammering enough to wake the whole house, so we need to hurry.” Héctor nodded and jumped down to the ground with a clatter. He was upright with hands ready to receive a pie within seconds. All the apple and peach pies went to him, and while Héctor worked on arranging his sack so all the pies would survive the trip, Imelda took another sack from him for the blueberry pies. They would have stained the others, was her reasoning as she stacked them up, and within another five minutes, they were both ready to go. Imelda let herself out the kitchen door and glanced up at the house, making sure no peering eyes were there before she retrieved Héctor from the window and started off, not running, because she refused to run from her own house, but certainly walking with purpose and maybe a little urgency. Héctor snagged her arm and got them on a trolley easily, one nearly abandoned this time of the day. They both stood inside with sacks over their shoulders, elbows linked but not even looking at each other, until Héctor bent over double and began to shake. 

“Héctor?” Imelda reached over and poked his shoulder, and then realized it was laughter, laughter that he was trying to stifle in his hand. “Héctor, what—?”

“You should have seen your face!” he managed to get out. “And me! If I had a heart I would have had a heart attack!” He bit down on a finger to try to keep quiet. 

Imelda stared at him, at his sack of pies, back at him, and couldn’t fight back her smile. Whether it was the ridiculous situation or his own infectious laughter she wasn’t sure, but within seconds she was laughing too, leaning against him to support herself as they both giggled and snorted like teenagers who had gotten away with mischief. They almost missed their stop on the trolley, and Imelda had to let herself fall into Héctor’s arms as she jumped off the back. He caught her tight, still grinning, and took her hand as they continued on, the bright night lights of the city just beginning to be replaced by the light of dawn. 

“So,” Héctor said as they began the descent towards the river, “Who are we bringing pies to, exactly?”

Imelda frowned and bit at her lip. “Oh...the new couple. That just moved in.”

He shifted the sack on his shoulder. Did it hurt, on forgotten bones? “There’s a few of those.”

Imelda stopped and squeezed her eyes shut. “I think they said something about...Enrique?”

Héctor was quiet. 

“Well?” Imelda asked, rounding on him. “Does that help?” She stopped short at the look in his eyes. Something lost. Something shattered. “Héctor?” She reached out to take his hand. He glanced down at her hand, then his gaze travelled up her arm to her face, lingered for a moment in that fragility, and then:

“Ah ha, sorry,” he quipped with a little bashful grin. “Just looking at the sunset. Sunrise. The sun. Yeah, ‘Rique’s place, I know it, come on.” 

Enrique’s place was nowhere near Héctor’s, downstream instead of up, hidden among a number of precariously stacked houses one right on top of the other. If anything, these looked even more worn down, and there were gaps in the planks that both Héctor and Imelda had to maneuver and jump around. Imelda didn’t see any signs of habitation. 

“Enrique lived out here?” she asked as she circumnavigated yet another missing chunk of the walkway, long since rotted. 

“Ehh, he liked his privacy,” Héctor answered easily, and lead her around a corner. “Not much further.”

“Did anyone besides Enrique live here?” she asked, wordlessly taking his elbow. 

Héctor shrugged. “There are some like this couple, who start out here before moving upstream. We think this is the oldest part of Shantytown. The oldest part left. It’ll disappear in a few decades.” He stomped a little on the walkway. “The current is stronger here, tougher on the support. The beams will collapse someday and all this rotten wood will be swept away. When this place got too dangerous to live, we expanded upstream and kept moving that way. In time, all that we’ve built upstream will wear away and collapse and the forgotten will build a new home right back here again. Everything cycles back around.” He laughed a little. ‘’Rique liked to say he was just waiting for the rest of us to come back his way. But I guess he didn’t last long enough to see it.” 

Imelda studied his wistful expression. “You knew him well, didn’t you?” she asked. “You were friends.” 

Héctor shifted the sack of pies to his other shoulder and watched the current in the gaps in the wood beneath them. “We were friends,” he admitted after a moment. “‘Rique was maybe the only skeleton out here older than me. He...he…” 

“When did he die?” Imelda asked, shuffling a little closer. 

“Two weeks back, maybe?” 

“You could have told me.” Imelda let go of his elbow so she could reach for his face, touch his cheek and turn his head around to face her. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

He smiled sadly. “Imelda, if I told you every single time a friend of mine passed along, we’d never talk about anything else.” He pulled out of her grasp and started walking once more. “Come on, let’s deliver some pies.” 

Daniel. Enrique. And, no doubt soon, Grace and Missy and Emilia and everyone else Imelda had met in Shantytown. They would all be gone before she even noticed a slight discoloration in her bones. 

Héctor pointed out Enrique’s shack from down the walkway. “They’re your pies. You should go alone,” he suggested, and Imelda nodded before taking a peach pie from the sacks. 

“Is it too early?” she asked, gesturing at the sun just rising over the river, casting soft orange over everything. 

Héctor sat down at the edge of the boards and let his feet dangle. The water pushed against his legs instead of gently lapping. Imelda would hate to fall in the river down here. “They might feel a little worried if they see two people stalking them from down the way.” 

Imelda rolled her eyes a little but hitched up her skirts and started towards the hut. She stepped carefully over every gap, investigating the hut as she got closer. Enrique must have been some sort of madman. It looked like he’s pried up extra boards and attached them to the hut, one on top of the other and all over again so the hut looked almost like a tortoise. If the beams here did collapse, that hut would sink straight to the bottom. But Imelda could see how it would appeal to the newly forgotten. There was a thick slab of wood covering the entrance, and the shell of wood did make it seem very safe. Imelda patted her hair into place and knocked on the slab of wood. She heard some whispered voices from inside, and then the wood was just barely nudged aside. A young man in nice clothes—not yet ravaged by living out in Shantytown, peeked out at her. Before she could get a breath in, he began to babble, eyes wide with worry, “I’m so sorry! Is this your place? I swear, we didn’t know! We didn’t touch anything! We just...didn’t know where to go and—” 

Imelda held out the pie and he stopped short, eyes travelling from the pie to her face and back to the pie. “I’m Imelda,” she told him, softly as she could. “This is a gift, to welcome you.” 

The slab of wood was pulled even farther away, and a young woman wearing a pretty blue lace dress joined her husband. She was the one who reached out and took the pie. “Th-thank you,” she stuttered, and bowed her head a little. 

Is this what it would be like, when the Riveras were finally forgotten? Would they cower out here in the most dangerous parts of Shantytown, terrified of everyone? It was devastating to think of Julio or Victoria or anyone of her family hiding in wooden huts, terrified of being forgotten while, at the same time, terrified  _ of _ the forgotten. 

“My husband is down that way,” Imelda told them, gesturing with one hand. “This part of Shantytown isn’t very safe, and you’ll be happier living near everyone else. Héctor can get you settled somewhere better.” Had she asked? No. But she was sure he could. Cousin Héctor could call in a few favors. “Can he come back sometime? Soon?” 

“Um…” The young man wove his fingers anxiously together. The young woman looked past Imelda to where Héctor was still seated with his legs in the water. 

“We don’t want to be trouble,” she murmured, ducking her head again. It really was pretty dress she wore. The women Imelda had been talking with would love it. 

“You won’t be trouble,” she assured them with a shake of her head. “Everyone really does help everyone else around here.” 

The woman glanced up. “May I ask...how long you’ve been here?” 

Oh. “I...I don’t live here,” Imelda admitted, wishing desperately she had something to do with her hands. Eventually she just knotted them behind her back. “My husband has been here for a long time though.” She heard the click of approaching footsteps, and both the couple’s eyes snapped to somewhere behind her. Thank goodness. 

“Hi there,” Héctor greeted them, putting an arm around Imelda’s shoulders. “I’m Héctor. Can I ask your names?” His voice was gentler than she would have expected. Not the facade of Cousin Héctor. Because of course, he must have greeted as many to Shantytown as he saw leave it. And he’d sent her down here with only a pie. Oh there would be words had later. 

“Rita,” the woman said, “Rita and Bernardo.” 

Héctor nodded and repeated the names back. “Rita and Bernardo. Well, I’ll tell you what, why don’t you enjoy this lovely pie that my…” He paused, and then turned to Imelda with a frown. “You said Rosita made these?” 

She nodded. 

“What is Rosita, then, to me? She’s Julio’s sister, sí? So...my son-in-law’s sister, what is the word for that? There must be one.” His voice began to lilt into that light joking tone he used for being Cousin Héctor. “It’s going to bother me if there isn’t a word for that...”

Imelda coughed and nodded her head back towards Rita and Bernardo. “I think you can just say daughter in-law.” 

He sighed deeply. “Fine.” But Rita and Bernardo were both beginning to smile. And he knew it. His arm tightened a little bit around her shoulder, comfortingly, and he straightened his spine with a grin. “Alright then, why don’t you enjoy this lovely pie that my _daughter_ _in-law_ made and in a few days I’ll come find you and we’ll get you resituated, aye? I know a beautiful spot of real estate, lovely water view you won’t find anywhere else in town…” 

He laughed when Imelda tried to elbow him. 

“Okay, okay, everyone around here gets a beautiful spot of river-view real estate. But you don’t want to be down here.” He stamped a foot on the rotting boards. “Not safe. And things are much more manageable with good neighbors.” 

Bernardo’s brow wrinkled. “We’ll...we’ll think about it.” 

“Okay.” Immediately, Héctor began to back away, to give them their space. “I’ll come back. Enjoy the pie!” He pulled Imelda with him, spun them around so she could only hear the wood slab being pushed back into place. They reached where they’d left the sacks. “That went well,” Héctor told her. 

She gave him a skeptical look. “Really?” 

Héctor picked up both sacks and handed Imelda hers. “One person usually isn’t hard to convince. They’re lonely.” He lent her his elbow so they could make their way upstream. “Pairs are harder. They have each other. And since they have someone else to trust, they often won’t place their trust in us. It gets worse the larger the group.” He gave her a glance and huffed in exhaustion. “The Riveras are going to be a nightmare.” 

She could have hit him with her shoe if she didn’t have a sack of pie occupying her hands. “We will not be a nightmare!” 

Héctor grinned. “I’m almost sorry I won’t be around to see it.”

He just put his face forward and continued on, but Imelda faltered in her steps, chest suddenly aching. She wished he wouldn’t talk like that. 

By the time they got back to the inhabited parts of Shantytown, the group of women Imelda had been chatting with were in their usual place. They called out and waved to Héctor and Imelda as they saw them, and Imelda welcomed the distraction. “I have...a surprise!” she called, and rushed forward on steady boards to set her sack right next to where Grace was sitting and pull out a pie. “My daughter-in-law made a nice peach pie for the new couple,” she explained, trying to hold back a smile. “But she might have made a few too many.” 

“Oh, Imelda!” “You didn’t have to!” “They smell heavenly!” “Missy, look at this crust! So delicate!”

Héctor came up behind Imelda and set down his sack as well. Imelda quickly took all the pies out and spread them on the walkway, letting the women pick among them. She didn’t miss Héctor snagging an apple pie for himself before they could all be taken. The women were already organizing who would go where to feed which part of Shantytown. So very efficient. Imelda got pulled into an awkward hug, and then another, and then was kissed on both cheeks, hard bone against bone. It wasn’t five minutes since she arrived and the women were off, carrying their pies in all different directions to feed as many people as they could. 

Imelda gathered the sacks and folded them neatly over her arm. “I saw that,” she told Héctor, who produced the pie from behind his back. 

“The kids would riot if they thought you didn’t bring them any. And I want some too.” 

“Put the puppy dog face away.” Imelda stood on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for helping me in our pie robbery.” She knew the way to his place from here. She led the way, while he lingered with his hand on his cheek. “It actually...reminded me a bit of that time you tried to climb to my window.” 

“Oh no,” Héctor groaned as he caught up to her. “Please don’t remind me.”

“It was wonderful,” Imelda insisted. It had been right after they’d started courting. Her parents hadn’t known yet. Héctor had made an attempt to scale the gazebo in her courtyard so he could reach her window. He would have made it if one of the roof tiles had not slipped and landed him in a mess on the ground, tiles smashing all around him. And of course the noise had woken her parents, and her father had come out with his oak club he liked to keep for potential intruders. Imelda had leaned out her window and called to her father about how the thief had run towards the kitchens, which had given Héctor the chance to escape over the fence. From then on, if they wanted to meet at night, Héctor would wait for her to come to his small home he shared with an aging grandmother who was easy to sneak past and probably hadn’t cared anyways. 

Those nights together had seemed endless and all too short at once. Héctor had shown Imelda the fields, the lazy bend in the river, the cave beneath the  _ ahuehuete  _ tree where he liked to hide and write his music. It was so wonderfully forbidden for her, and it had been a thrill to climb into his lap beneath the  _ ahuehuete  _ tree and test how many kisses it took to make him breathless. 

Maybe Imelda shouldn’t have brought up the gazebo. Now  _ she _ was feeling all worked up. She quickened her pace so he wouldn’t see her expression as they walked to his hut together. 

Imelda sat with her feet in the river as the morning passed, trying to focus on the feel of the water as Héctor tinkered with his new melody. Despite her silence, it wasn’t awkward, and both of them were able to fall into easy smiles when the children came for lunch. 

“You should sit out front,” Héctor suggested after all the children were happily eating. “The sun feels nice.” 

She was fine in the shade where she could hear his playing, but the way he said it made her nod. Imelda gathered the children with her as they finished their lunch and took them back outside. She sat near the door and watched them break out into a massive game of hide-and-seek. The poor little boy who was it counted to one hundred before running off to check all of Shantytown, though he seemed delighted by the prospect. Imelda smiled to herself and shut her eyes. Was she still tired from the events of the past few days, or did she want to try to more vividly remember kissing Héctor underneath the  _ ahuehuete  _ tree? Perhaps both. 

She was lost in thought when the first voice rang out. 

“Cousin Imelda?” 

Her eyes snapped open and landed on the group of skeletons on the walkway. “Sí?” 

They all grinned and one waved an arm. “Thank you for the pie!” “It was wonderful!” “I haven’t eaten like that in years!” 

“Oh.” So  _ this _ was why Héctor had suggested she sit outside. “Of course! I’d love to do it again, sometime!” 

“Oh, well, can’t exactly say not to that…” “But you shouldn’t trouble yourself for our sakes…” 

Once there, she was stuck. For the next several hours she sat out front as skeletons from all around Shantytown came to thank her for the pie. Many of them proved quite chatty, more than enough so to make up for her lack of chattiness, just like her experience with the women the other day. Oh, you’re welcome. It was nothing. My daughter-in-law is very talented. Yes, I’ll give Héctor your best. You’re welcome. You’re welcome. You’re welcome. The sun was setting beyond the river by the time she felt she could escape back inside without being rude to the people out on the walkways. She waved goodbye to the elderly woman who made the entire trip just to give thanks and then stood and brushed off her skirts. Hopefully Rita and Bernardo had enjoyed their pie as well, even if they were hidden away in Enrique’s strange little house. 

Enrique. Imelda paused with her hand bunched in the blanket across the entrance. Héctor could have told her his friend died. Should have told her. What was he trying to accomplish by hiding it? She hadn’t even known the man, so it was hardly like with Daniel, trying to protect her from pain. There was no logic to it, and she was going to wring it out of him. She threw the blanket aside and let herself into the hut. 

Héctor was still fiddling away with his song. He opened one eye when she entered and smiled lopsidedly, completely axing her determination to get answers. It could wait a little. “How is it being Cousin Imelda?”

She breathed out and steadied her hands on her ribcage. Waited just a little. “Tiring. I don’t know how you keep it up.” 

“You get used to it,” he replied easily, set the guitar aside, and patted the ground beside him. “Want a seat?” He frowned a little as she came to sit beside him. “I should probably get a chair or a box or something.” 

Imelda leaned into him with a soft sigh. “This is fine.”

“Alright,” he agreed, and shifted so she would be more comfortable. “This is fine.” 

Imelda smiled and let her eyes fall closed. Getting answers could wait a few minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!!  
> And a special thank you to the wonderful person who left me a tip on the last chapter, this chapter was 3000% brought to you by how incredibly teary that made me. Thank you for making a bad week much much better.  
> Next week is an incredibly emotionally charged chapter so I hope you all enjoyed light-hearted pie stealing while it lasted! See you next Friday!  
> (And if you think this chapter was worth a coffee, I'd appreciate the support very much if you want to follow the link at my [blog](http://www.ruisninomiya.tumblr.com).~)


	12. Chapter 12

The next time Imelda opened her eyes, the hut was in shadow, the light reflected off the water brilliant in red and orange, fading to purple. Somehow her hand had ended up wrapped in Héctor’s, carefully, like she was something breakable. When Imelda shifted, Héctor turned to look down at her. “I thought I would let you sleep.” 

Imelda couldn’t remember the last time she had truly slept from exhaustion, and now twice in just a few days. She straightened up from where she’d rested against Héctor’s shoulder and gave his hand a little squeeze. He must have taken her hand while she slept. It was unexpectedly bold of him, not that she would complain. She wouldn’t exactly mind if he took the initiative more often. Imelda didn’t detangle their hands as she shifted, made sure he knew she just needed to sit up and wasn’t pulling away. She could barely make out his features in the fading light, which made it easier to ask. “Why didn’t you tell me about Enrique?” He drew back almost immediately, and she tightened her grip on his hand, keeping him anchored to her. “You could have told me. He was your friend.”

Héctor cleared his throat uncomfortably and muttered, “You didn’t know him.”

“But  _ you _ did.” Frustrating man. Didn’t he understand? “If something is hurting you, I want to know. If something is hurting you, give part of that hurt to me! You don’t hide it from me! You don’t decide that it’s pain I don’t need! We deal with it together! Isn’t that part of being husband and wife?” 

Her voice dropped into complete silence. That had been much louder than she’d meant to be. More than she’d meant to say. She froze in place, waiting to see how he would respond. 

Héctor slowly turned his face from her, hat shielding his eyes. It took him a while to answer, and then: “Are we still husband and wife, Imelda? Really?” The words were harsh, but his tone was fragile. “You didn’t want to be, for so long. Is now the time you really want to be married again?” 

Did she? Now, after so many decades, was that what she wanted? 

She loved him. She knew that.

And he loved her. After all that they’d been through, he loved her. She knew it from the way he looked at her, from his gentle touch, from the way he sang to her, from the way he’d still hung on, no matter how many times she turned him away, the way he never stopped trying to go home. But hearing it aloud would make it real. 

Was she frightened of it becoming real?

The voice rose unbidden in the back of her mind: better to lose someone who didn’t love her back. 

No. No, she had done that once already, and it had burned her out from the inside. She would learn from her mistakes this time, ignore that voice that would only bring her decades and decades of more pain. It was better to know Héctor died loving her than to think his love had never existed. Yes. Always better to believe in love. 

“Yes,” she whispered, and reached out to touch his face, cup his cheek and guide his gaze back to hers, gently rub her thumb along the markings beneath his eyes. “Yes,” she repeated, and tilted their foreheads together. “I would like to be married again.” 

She heard his intake of breath, could tell he was trembling, ever so slightly. “Hush,” she said, and took his face in both hands, closed her eyes, knelt there on the wooden floor with her skirts pooling around her and her husband safe and whole right there with her. Eventually, his breathing settled, and a tentative hand came to slide from the vertebrae of her neck down to her shoulder and then travelled back up again so he could run fingers through her hair and fiddle with her ribbons. 

Through the open wall Imelda could hear the inevitable sounds of bonfires being lit, of instruments beginning to play, of the forgotten coming together to party the night away. Maybe someone got their hands on some quality whiskey. Maybe it was a celebration of having eaten today for the first time in so long. Either way, it wasn’t long before the distant strain of song and singing echoed across the river and the light of the fires danced across the water to chase the sunset away and compete with the light of the moon and the stars. She should be going. But she couldn’t. Not now. 

She needed every minute.

One day you will come, and I will be gone. That was what he said. Gone into golden dust like the sunset. 

Her absent heart ached with the thought of it. She stroked both thumbs once more beneath Héctor’s eyes and then sat back.  “What if I started coming every day?” she asked. “Victoria is doing a good job with the shop. They really don’t need me.” Her hands slid down his face to his suspenders, pulling him ever so slightly closer. 

It was almost funny how young he looked, all made of bone. “Imelda,” he said with a choked voice, and then his face twisted. Slowly, he undid her grip on his suspenders and stood up, backed away until the light of the bonfires could no longer reach him. “You don’t need to do that.” 

A moment of silence. “What if I want to?” she asked at last, and stood as well, propped herself up against the beam beside the open wall.  

She heard Héctor sigh, and watched the shadow of his figure pull off his hat to fiddle with the straw. “What I said, about not wanting to get to know the family? Because then I would have more to lose?” 

“What of it?” she asked, the harshness in her voice startling even her. She should try to control herself, but she felt like porcelain breaking, the cracks creeping along with every word they said. She didn’t know how long it would be before she broke entirely, until every disastrous word she knew had been stored inside for so long came rushing out and created damage she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to fix. 

She heard the sound of straw tearing beneath his hands. “I just…” he began carefully, and sighed again. “I don’t want you to lose more than you have to either.” 

She put her hands on her hips and glared. “What do you mean?” She knew full well what he meant. But she needed to hear him say it. Needed to hear his words. Did he really think she hadn’t already thought this out? That the thought hadn’t occupied her mind for months, ever since Dia de los Muertos, when she thought she might truly lose him forever? That the fact he would soon be gone wasn’t a fact that plagued her always, with him, without him, trying to sleep at night, trying to smile during the day?

Another snap of straw. Héctor’s foot tapped nervously against the floor as he spoke. “The children. Everyone in Shantytown. Me. We’ll all leave long before you do.” He turned and walked even further into shadow, the moonlight filtering through the gaps in the roof just barely illuminating traces of bone. She watched him wrap his spare arm around his ribcage and wondered what emotion he was trying to keep trapped inside. Finally, he shook his head and muttered, “If Miguel hadn’t been cursed, I would have passed on by now, and you never would have known. Wouldn’t have cared. Things would have been easier for you, that way.”

Her eyes narrowed, and the cracks in the her porcelain walls crept just a little further along. “Well, I’m used to things not being easy.” Used to the loss, used to the pain, used to the what-ifs and maybes that filled her mind years after she’d thought she was past it all. Used to the empty space in the bed, used to the soft sound of Coco singing when she thought her mamá couldn’t hear, used to the sharp snap of shutters being drawn the moment she heard the mariachi begin to play...

He groaned and spun in place. “I’m saying that it would have been better if we had never...if  _ this _ —” He turned back to her, strode back into the light, and gestured wildly between the two of them. His eyes looked all the more frantic lit up in bonfire orange. “—if this had never happened. It’ll just hurt more now. For both of us, to try to be husband and wife again. Me, I don’t care about, but you...you Imelda...I just...I don’t…” He groaned again and pulled his hat up over his face, a shield as he kept forcing the words out. “I’m going to die, Imelda. You can’t fix that by visiting more often or by bringing pies. I am always, always going to die in the end, and I don’t want to  _ hurt  _ you…” 

The porcelain broke. How could he possibly...how could he…?

“ _ You don’t think I already know how much it hurts to lose you _ ?” 

The shout hurt her own ears to hear.

But the words, once out there, could never be taken back. They hung in the air in the distance between them, words that Imelda hadn’t even realized were fighting to be said. But now there was no stopping them. “I know,” she continued, hating the quaver in her voice, “ _ Exactly _ how much it hurts to lose you. Don’t think I can’t remember, every day, what it was like to wake up and remember that you had left me alone. Left me alone with a child to raise, so you could run off and pursue your dreams that you loved so much more than me.” 

Slowly, the hat dropped from Héctor’s hands and floated gently to the floor. Any facade had been stripped from his face. He stared back at her, eyes wide, vulnerable. “Imelda…” 

She couldn’t meet his eyes like that. She turned towards the river and watched the shimmering reflection of the moon, the distant dance of the skeletons around the bonfire. “I know what I’m choosing,” she said, voice tight. “You don’t get to decide what will be easier for me.” She pressed a hand hard against her chest, right where it ached, and shook her head. “That was what you did when you left with Ernesto too. Decided that it would be better for me, to have a garden and a big house and fancy clothes.” She shut her eyes tight, let her head drop. “But you never stopped to ask me if that was what I really wanted! You just decided what would be best for me all by yourself!  _ All by yourself _ !” 

She didn’t need to actually see it to know he was gaping at her. It took a moment for him to draw in the breath to reply, affronted, “I did ask! I asked if you would be okay if I left and you said yes!” 

Imelda scoffed as her eyes flew open. She turned to him and threw her hands in the air. “That’s different from asking me what I really wanted!”

“How is that different?” His own hands were all aflutter, waving wildly. “You said it was fine! You said to go! How is it different?” 

“Because!” Suddenly she couldn’t stand to be near him. She ripped herself from the beam and stomped across the room into darkness. “Because by the time you asked me if I’d be okay, I  _ had _ to say yes, didn’t I? How could I be the one to tell you not to follow your dream? You’d already made your decision by the time you first brought up the idea with me!”

He huffed dramatically and stood silhouetted against the open wall with crossed arms. “That’s not true! I would have stayed if you’d said something! Why didn’t you tell me to stay?” 

Imelda turned her back on him and hugged her arms about herself, foot tapping a cross rhythm. “Because I knew it was oh so important for you to  _ prove _ yourself to my family, to me, to yourself!”

“I wasn’t proving anything! I wanted to give you more—”

She whirled back around and approached him with one finger directed at his face, shaking a little as the pent up anger of nearly a hundred years let itself known. He took a step back on instinct and almost fell into the river as she crowded into his space “I never wanted a nicer house or a big garden! Coco liked her dresses and I didn’t want for anything! I was happy with the way things were.” She jabbed her finger into his breastbone, almost wishing it would be enough to push him into the water. “You could have bothered to ask that, at least!”

He sidestepped away from her and retreated to the dark corner of the hut where his bed and personal belongings lay, nearly tripping over the guitar box but saving himself last minute. “You can’t honestly say you were proud to be married to a poor mariachi player,” he muttered, gesturing to the instrument at his feet. “Proud to be married to a husband who couldn’t provide for you.”

Imelda drew herself up but then slowly deflated. The dam inside her had broke, and emptied, and arguing back and forth would get them nowhere. She turned away from him again—she just couldn’t decide if she could bear to see his face or not—to watch the dancers across the water once more. “I knew exactly what I was getting when I married you.” Her voice was a rasping whisper. “Other men could have given me nice houses and expensive clothes. But I married you, knowing you had barely anything.” She hugged her arms around her chest and squeezed her eyes shut. Why did it pain her so much to let these words out now? “If you’d asked me what I wanted, I would have said I wanted only you. No fame. No fortune. Just my husband by my side.” She sighed deeply and put a hand over her eyes. “And it’s what I’m saying now. I don’t care if it would have been easier to forget you completely. I  _ want _ you, even if it will hurt more in the end.” She felt her throat tighten, could hear Héctor start to move behind her, bare feet clicking on the floor. “I lied to you,” she admitted after a moment passed in silence. “I didn’t come to atone, when I first came here. I came because I wanted to see you. That was it. It was my own selfish reason, to seek you out.” She lowered her hand and shook her head a little as she studied the water. “Because even if it’s not for long, I want you to be  _ mine _ again.” Her voice broke completely on the words and with anyone else it would have been embarrassing. But between the two of them, in the little hut, it was simply a truth that needed to be said, because they didn’t have that much time. 

Hands settled on her shoulders, and then when she didn’t shove him away, Héctor’s arms moved to embrace her, to pull her back against himself. His mouth was right by her ear when he murmured, “I have always been yours, Imelda.” 

She gasped in a shuddering breath and settled her arms over his, pulling further into him. Like husband and wife. Like lovers. His chin hooked over her shoulder as she wrapped her arms up and back around his neck. “I meant it, you know,” she whispered as one of his hands slid down her rib cage towards her waist. “That night.” 

“Which—?”

“You’re the love of my life,” she cut him off with. “And death, too, apparently,” she added after a pause. She turned in his embrace and met his eyes. “Do you understand?” 

His brow furrowed, and then he nodded slowly. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, and then clutched her to him, face buried in her neck. “I’m so sorry I left. I’m sorry I didn’t ask what you wanted. I didn’t...I didn’t mean…I didn’t realize.”

They’d been young and foolish. Both of them. Young and foolish in a time when youth and foolishness could mean the death of everything. A marriage. A man. Imelda hugged him back and threaded fingers in his tousled hair. His hat was still on the floor somewhere; she felt it occasionally when she moved her feet. “And I didn’t realize what I was doing to you when I tore the photograph,” she replied, and squeezed her eyes shut, focusing on the way he shook against her, the movement of his chest in and out as he breathed unnecessary breaths. His hands locked in the small of her back. “We’ve both done wrong to each other without realizing it. But there were so many more wonderful things.” She nodded and drew away slightly, slid her hands from his hair to his face, ran her fingers along the whorls of the markings framing his seeking eyes. He looked so troubled, so lost, she couldn’t help but lean up and kiss his cheek. “Even with everything that happened,” she whispered against the bone, “I would choose to marry you and have that happiness, however brief. I would want to love you, again and again. No matter how many times I was given the choice.” 

He laughed, a broken staccato of a laugh, and tried to pull away but she refused to let go, eyes going to his bandana, his stitched up vest. She ran a hand down his chest, fingers catching at every individual rib until she reached the broken one, where she simply let her hand hover. Dare she say the actual words? 

They weren’t actually the slightest bit difficult to say. Her hand travelled back up to light upon the spot his heart had once been. It was almost as if she could still feel it, fluttering and warm inside his chest. Like a bird, a butterfly, trapped within his ribs. “Héctor, I love you.”

A pause, and then a weak chuckle as he slumped against her, shaking his head slightly. “What? A broken-down swindler like me?”

“I love you,” she repeated, and the next time it was practically a sob. After all the harsh words that had been waiting inside her to be said, these were the last ones, the most important of them all. “I love you. I love you.” 

She was pretty sure his legs folded first, but maybe it was her weight against him that forced it. Either way, they sunk to the floor, holding each other tight. Imelda gathered her skirts around her legs and tucked her head into his neck with arms tight around his chest. He leaned into her embrace and ran his hands up and down her back in soothing motions. 

Far away across the water, the parties of the forgotten continued on. When Imelda opened her eyes she could still watch the flicker of the fire on the river. After a while she became aware of his singing, barely loud enough to break a whisper. 

_ “Y aunque la vida me cueste, Llorona, _

_ No dejaré de quererte _

_ No dejaré de quererte…” _

 

Imelda sniffed and readjusted one hand so she could pet his hair. He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead and began to sway side to side, just a little bit, as he kept singing.

 

_ “No dejaré de quererte _

_ No dejaré de quererte…” _

 

And even if it costs me my life, I won’t stop loving you.

 

* * *

 

At some point, Héctor suggested she should go home before her family sent the cat monster. Imelda had argued back that none of them would notice as long as she was back by morning. So they stayed curled together on the floor as the parties on the river slowly wound down and the bonfires died, one by one by one, until only the moon and stars lit the water. 

“I missed this,” Héctor admitted at last. 

“What?” Imelda asked, and took his chin in hand so he would have to meet her eyes. He smiled easily as he did so. 

“Being held by you.” 

So simple. So guileless. And heartbreaking. “I love you,” she said again, as if those words could fix everything that was broken between them. He just settled into a soft expression and stared down at her with eyes reflecting moonlight. “Do you love me back?” she asked after a moment. 

“You need to ask?” He sounded almost offended, though his expression remained the same. 

Once, she believed that he ran off and left her, left her for music and pretty girls with flowers in their hair. But that had been the greatest lie of her life, to convince herself that Héctor had never loved her. It was in every touch, every dance, every song. He loved her in life. He loved her in death. He loved her now. 

Imelda tucked herself into him best as she could and closed her eyes with a contented little sound. After a moment, he did the same, humming a tune that swung between his nameless melody and  _ La Llorona _ . 

“Will you ever sing that song for me?” she asked as his humming wound down. “The new one?”

“There aren’t any words. I don’t know what the music wants to say yet.” 

“Mmm. It will be beautiful.” 

“Well, I believe I did say Ernesto missed out big time by murdering me so young.” He chuckled a little to himself while Imelda groaned. His arms tightened ever so slightly around her. “Have to learn to laugh at my own death, mi amor. No other way of getting around it.”

She still firmly believed catching Ernesto and hitting him with a bat would do the trick as well, but she didn’t mention it. With Shantytown slumbering, they may as well have been the only two people in the whole Land of the Dead, and she wouldn’t waste that time speaking about Ernesto de la Cruz. She wanted to be held. 

That had always been the thing about Héctor, even a hundred years ago. The thing that made her realize she loved him. It wasn’t the dancing, the music, the sneaking around at night, thought that was certainly part of it. But most of all it was because he could hold her and she needed nothing more. No kisses, no promises, no words even. Just his warmth. Just him. Just him, and she was happy. Endless hours could pass in silence and not a single moment felt wasted because it had been spent with him, and she could easily imagine spending the rest of her life happy simply because he was at her side. It felt the same now. Imelda tilted her head to rest against his collarbone with a small sigh and Héctor curled just a little tighter around her. One of his hands began playing absentmindedly with her ribbons. 

The river lapped gently against the wooden beams of the boardwalk, only audible now for the complete silence of everything else. Slowly, Imelda knew, the sky was spinning towards morning. She would have to leave eventually. But not yet. 

Not yet. 

Not yet. 

Not—

She could feel Héctor’s fingers brushing against her cheek. “Wake up, mi amor,” he whispered, and she opened one eye. 

“I wasn’t asleep.” She hadn’t been. She’d been...memorizing. Committing every detail to memory so she could pull it back after he was gone. But she wouldn’t tell him that.

“Could have fooled me,” he answered cheerfully. “But you should be going now, I think.” He put his hat back on while she sat upright, and then clambered to his feet so he could help Imelda all the way up. She stumbled a little and took his arm to steady herself. 

“Still tired?” he asked, more concerned now. 

“Can’t an old woman close her eyes these days?” she joked, and pulled on his handkerchief until their foreheads bumped. 

Héctor smirked, all worry gone. “I must be very boring tonight, s í ?” 

“That must have been it,” she agreed, and stood on her toes to kiss his cheek before releasing his handkerchief. “Will you take me to shore?” 

There was no one on the boardwalk, and the clicking of their feet joined the sound of the water slowly streaming past. The walk to shore took far too short a time, but Imelda didn’t ask Héctor to come with her further. He would be stranded in the city when the sun came up. Instead she took his hand and kissed his fingers, and murmured once more against them, “I love you.” 

He laughed a little breathlessly and rubbed the back of his head with his free hand. “And I you. Will you be back tomorrow?” 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know, I just…” He kicked at the ground like a naughty school child. “See you tomorrow.” 

She tugged his hat into place and dusted at his shoulders. “Tomorrow. Let me know how everyone liked the pies!”

It felt wrong to walk away. But she needed to get home before the twins got up. They were horrible early risers and she was spending too many nights away. Imelda lifted her skirts and hustled. She made good time with barely anyone on the streets and a few precarious trolley rides.

Pepita began to purr loudly when she saw Imelda coming up the way, which was something akin to a car engine starting. Imelda shushed her frantically as she let herself in the kitchen door and took her shoes off so she could sneak to her bedroom without them giving her away. She could still hear Pepita outside, but thankfully none of her family members came to investigate. Imelda mussed up her bed to make it look like she at least spent a few hours in it, and then leaned out the window to talk to Pepita, try to calm her down. 

It seemed forever ago that she and Héctor were stealing pies off the kitchen windowsills. Did any one day have the right to feel so long? But she would never take it back. 

For his last days, Héctor would know that she loved him. And he loved her, and she would be better for knowing, even if they had to say goodbye too soon.

There was a crash from downstairs. That had to be the twins. Imelda huffed and patted Pepita one more time on the nose before making her way over to her bedroom door. She would go see what damage had been done, and then climb to the roof and give Pepita some undivided attention properly instead of hanging half out her window. And indeed, Óscar and Felipe were in the kitchen snagging breakfast when she got there. A broken plate was not so skillfully swept under the cabinet. They looked only slightly guilty when she got there.

“Imelda!” Felipe exclaimed with a fried egg hanging half out of his mouth.

She raised a brow. “Yes, that’s me.” 

“You had a late night!” Óscar replied, frying up his own egg and not paying careful enough attention. She pretended not to hear that as she grabbed some bread and cheese to eat and then continued on outside so she could climb to the roof. The past few days, ever since the dance, had so much going on she didn’t even have the energy to worry about the rumors and crazy theories being spread around the house, but they had to be wild ones by now, if she knew her family. Tongues would be wagging, she knew, but she would just have to pretend she didn’t know and keep herself busy. 

And they did wag something fierce. Imelda could tell by the way whispered conversations suddenly cut off when she entered a room, by the sheepish expressions on her family members’ faces. Héctor complained about Shantytown gossipers, but he knew  _ nothing _ of Riveras. She ignored Victoria’s not-so-secretive gaze as she scanned the account books. She ignored Julio ducking behind doorways when she came into the room. She ignored Rosita’s good-natured ponderings about how nice it was to bake for people again and  _ oh how nice it would be to meet them _ . And she ignored everything about her brothers, who were having a field day teasing her in subtle ways she couldn’t react to without giving herself away. It was a relief to finally reach the end of the day and seclude herself in her room. There, she could forget their gazes and focus on tomorrow. Imelda leaned against the windowsill and stared out across the city in the direction she knew Shantytown was. 

What would they do tomorrow? 

Actually, what  _ would _ they do? Would anything change, with their feelings out in the open now? She couldn’t be sure. Couldn’t be sure of how Héctor would act. She might have to plan things out a bit. 

But she loved him. He loved her. Her ribcage felt filled with warmth at the thought, like a hot-air balloon. Maybe she would begin to take off, and the only solution would be to tether her to the bedpost. If she could have this feeling for only a few months, a few weeks, a few days, then it would be worth all the pain later.

She would never again regret loving him. No matter what. 

_ And even if it costs me my life, I won’t stop loving you.  _

After he was gone, she would keep on loving him. Until she herself faded and died, she would love him, and then, in a just world, the realm beyond this one would offer them an eternity together. She’d just have to ask him to wait. And until then? She would do everything different. She would share his stories, sing his songs, do everything she could to make sure…

Make sure of what? 

To make sure he would be there waiting for her, at the very end of it all. 

Remembered.

 

* * *

 

Because she was herself and couldn’t sleep, she did try to plan things out a bit. 

“I thought up a set of rules,” Imelda announced, when it was just her and Héctor in the privacy of his home. She paused, and then deflated a little. “Is that strange?” It had seemed like a much better idea last night.

“I know who I married.” Héctor, cross-legged before her, waved an encouraging hand. 

Imelda wasn’t sure if that was meant as a compliment or not. She coughed gently before continuing. “First, you have no right to make my decisions for me. We’ve had enough of that already, in life and in death, and it only causes trouble. Even if you think it’s for my own good, it’s my choice. If a child is dying, I want to be there. If a friend of yours dies, I want to know. I make these decisions for myself, got it? I’m a grown woman  _ and _ I’m older than you. By a full year.  _ My _ choice.” 

Héctor gaped at her for a moment after the miniature rant before giving another, weaker, wave. “Fair.” 

Imelda blinked. She’d thought maybe he’d argue back against her, and she felt a bit off-balance.

Héctor sat up a little straighter. “Okay, what’s the next rule?”

Next rule, next rule…

“I didn’t...actually come up with more than one,” she admitted, crossing her arms across her chest and tapping an irritated foot.

“I can give you a minute,” he offered, the very picture of innocent helpfulness, and if he wasn’t dying, she might have hit him with her boot. 

“Okay...then...rule two!” she declared, and then softened her voice and kneeled before him. “I want to change our deal.” 

“Our deal?” The innocent expression turned to confusion, and then he remembered. “Ah, our deal. Stories!” He turned his head to one side and regarded her suspiciously. “You don’t want to tell me any more stories?” 

Imelda sighed and took his chin in hand, forced him to look her way. “No. Not that at all. I want...I want to hear…” He gazed at her, so obviously confused.  She frowned and chewed on her lower lip, and then sighed and tucked her head into his neck. She felt him tense, but then his arms wrapped tight around her, pulling her easily into his lap. “Tell me about them,” Imelda whispered once she could lift her mouth to his ear. 

“What?” It was enough to force his gaze back her direction.

“About the ones who are gone now.” She pulled one of his hands close to her chest and played with his fingers. “All the people you’ve seen pass on.” 

She felt him stiffen all over again. “Why would—”

“Because we are husband and wife,” she cut him off, “As your wife, I want to share your pain.” She folded his hand into a fist and kissed the back of it. “Maybe that will make it better.” She paused. “Well, no, ‘better’ is not the word. But keeping all that hurt inside doesn’t make it disappear.” 

She had first-hand experience with that, at least. 

Héctor wasn’t convinced. She read it in the straight line of his spine and stillness where he normally fidgetted. But she would have to be adamant. She might not have a second rule, but she knew why he needed this, why they both did. Imelda kissed his hand again and then tucked herself as close to his chest as she could. “I know you’ve lost many, many people who were dear to you. But maybe...maybe wherever they’ve gone, we can tell their stories here, and it still matters.”

“Still matters?”

Imelda nodded. She’d thought a lot about this last night too. “The stories they tell of us in the land of the living help sustain as here. Now, I know nobody knows what lies beyond this world but...but…”

Maybe in whatever existence lay beyond the Land of the Dead, being remembered still mattered. She had to believe that. 

She didn’t need to finish putting it into words for him to understand. “You really think so?”

“I hope so.” She smoothed her skirts. “So I’ll tell your stories. And our stories. I’ll tell them to the whole family. I’ll tell them to Coco. So wherever…” Her throat felt far too tight. She fiddled with her necklace and coughed a little before finishing. “Wherever you go, we’ll keep your memory alive here.”

She fell silent, and he didn’t seem inclined to speak, but after a moment, he tilted his head to kiss her on the brow. “Thank you,” he whispered. 

She didn’t deserve his thanks, but Imelda said nothing. She waited until Héctor finally shifted to lean back on his hands and sigh heavily. “Some stories, eh? Alright, well, since it’s...since it’s recent, I guess I can tell you about Enrique.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading, and an extra thanks to everyone who left kudos or such kind reviews! You're all wonderfully awesome.  
> I'm starting a new job next week that I'm really hoping won't mess with my update schedule, but if no new chapter shows up, that'll all it is and I will get it out ASAP if my Friday is full.  
> If you enjoy emotional fallout and you think this chapter was worth a coffee, the extra support is always very much appreciated and probably cried over. [The link is in my blog sidebar!](http://www.ruisninomiya.tumblr.com)  
> But I hope you enjoyed the update and look forward to what's coming next! Lots of changes coming up with Coco's death approaching...
> 
> UPDATE 11/16: I am so sorry you guys, so much came up suddenly (including an emergency wisdom teeth extraction I am so swollen omg) and I haven't had the time to sit down and give this story the time and attention it deserves, because the last few chapters definitely deserve my undivided attention. The good news is that when I post next, it will be with the whole story completed, right down to the epilogue, so I'll post it all at once as a huge apology for taking so long. Thank you for the encouraging messages in the meantime—they mean a lot!


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have nothing to offer but a very very deep apology for taking so long to update. Things expected and things unexpected got in the way and then I thought I'd finish the whole story for you guys but decided it was better to give this chapter now rather than put off updating any longer. So I'm very sorry about the late late late update, but I still hope you enjoy it! I'm very happy to be finishing this story and sharing the last little bit with you all!

There were so many stories. Imelda had thought Héctor might run out, as he had gradually run low on stories of himself to tell. But stories of others? It was endless. Whether he knew them just for a few short weeks or knew them enough for their complete life and death stories, Héctor had stored all those memories inside himself to the point Imelda was amazed he didn’t burst.

Enrique had been the first to welcome Héctor into Shantytown, who let Héctor stay for weeks in his strange little hut until Héctor found his own place. He was a master at brewing moonshine, which had tied quite closely into his manner of death, by matter of fact. He’d been in the Land of the Dead just a few years longer than Héctor, and believed that most things that happened after his death were faked. Particularly the moon landing. Héctor had spent many a night knocking back drinks with the cheerful old man in a faded sombrero with one of the biggest moustaches—salt and pepper grey—that Héctor had ever seen, listening to how the kids nowadays were having the wool pulled over their eyes, thinking mankind had landed on the moon. The moon was too good for men, Enrique had told him. The moon had been the symbol of the goddess Artemis, and used in rites that spanned millenia. Man had no right to leave his mark on so pure a thing. Enrique had been quite certain of that. And he’d added and added onto his strange tortoise hut as his bones grew weaker and his joints looser. Héctor had walked in on him using his own calf bone as a hammer once. The secret to his longevity? Apparently, at least in a certain small area of Mexico, he was quite infamous for his manner of death that he never actually disclosed in full, and the details of his exploits were still being shared in stories. This made Héctor fairly certain he’d been best friends with an actual outlaw, guns and all, but Enrique had never turned away someone in need unless they tried to convince him man had landed on the moon. But eventually his stories had dried up, and Enrique had gone through the final death alone. He probably didn’t want to bother anyone. Héctor still had the last bottle of moonshine Enrique had given him though. He shared it with Imelda one night, after the children had left.

“I think you would have gotten along,” he told Imelda quite seriously. “I told him about Ernesto stealing my songs and he offered to bring me his skull by morning. I will admit, I was tempted.”

Imelda clinked her glass against his. “Well, you did end up with a great-grandson with the same name. Coincidence?”

Chicharrón lacked Enrique’s mysterious past, but he made up for it with good-natured cantankerousness. Chicharrón had started with everything. A picture on the ofrenda. A living family who passed on his stories. But then something had changed, something he still didn’t understand why, and he began to be forgotten. “He turned up at the river with this van full of stuff,” Héctor said with a chuckle, and shook his head. “Me and ‘Rique and a couple of others were there when he got here and asked us where all the real houses were, because damn sure he wasn’t living in a hovel.” But Chicharrón had settled into a hut soon enough, and then Héctor had started using him as his personal supplier for his insane bridge schemes, though he didn’t put it quite that way. “He was not exactly happy when I lost the van. Or his leg. I did lose the leg. I still feel bad about that. But I found him a prosthetic!” Chicharrón had been one of the few people to hear Héctor play, in that long period between Héctor giving up guitar and Miguel arriving in the Land of the Dead. It had been habit, Héctor said, that made him pick up the guitar he found in the mountains of Chicharrón’s possessions and pluck a few strings, and so some other nights passed with Héctor quietly playing requests as he and Chicharrón passed a bottle of tequila back and forth, another possession crammed into the tiny hut. “You’ve never wanted for drink, have you?” Imelda asked, and Héctor shook his head with a smile.

But it wasn’t just limited to old men with alcohol. It was children and parents and couples in love and the lost and the angry and the unbearably sad. Héctor told their stories with fondness in his voice and yearning in his eyes as the sun rose into the sky and then dipped back down into the water, over and over, the weeks flowing past like the river. Every other day, Imelda came with food to share and her own stories to trade, as was their bargain, but more often than not, Héctor forgot entirely about her side of the bargain and got wound up in telling the stories of the forgotten for their whole visit. Sometimes the children would stay to listen too, and Imelda wondered if they would pass on the stories in turn, a web of memories being spun and then spun again stronger.

And while memories were spun in Shantytown, her home was changing too.

Rosita had really gotten a taste for baking for strangers. And for baking in general. She hadn’t done it as anything more than a necessity for so long, but now she was in the kitchen every day, trying new recipes and trying to remember old ones she’d never written down. And Imelda had made it clear that the friend she was bringing food for would probably enjoy anything, so Rosita was happy to experiment a little. Or a lot. Somehow the twins got roped into it and Imelda came home one night to find the three of them still trying to clean up flour that had somehow exploded all over the house. On top of it, little wooden airplanes were appearing all over the place—Imelda nearly killed herself all over again sneaking in one late night and stepping on one trying to sneak up the stairs. Óscar and Felipe did a lot more laughing than apologizing too, which she remained unimpressed by. Rosita had gotten in the habit of roping her brother into helping go to market as well, though going to market wasn’t the only thing Julio was doing these days. The spare room was being renovated into a place for Julio and Coco to share, once she passed. Imelda walked around on the drop cloths and remembered how she had sat in that corner and held Héctor’s glowing hand for three days until he finally began to dim. The walls were being painted a bright yellow, and Julio was enjoying himself brightening up the furniture he’d been hoarding for when his wife joined him. It was going to be a wonderful room when finished, and Imelda couldn’t wait to see Coco again, while at the same time she felt sick when she saw Julio sitting at dinner splattered with paint. Time was passing. But with even Julio busy with his renovations, it meant that some days Imelda went into the workshop to find only Victoria there, and Victoria seemed to be taking time off as well, if the pile of books that migrated to wherever she was sitting that day was any hint. Which was...good. Before the last Día de Los Muertos, Imelda would look into a bustling workshop and see it as a sign of happiness and productivity. Shoes held things together. But it turned out that pies could hold them together too. And airplanes. And books. Explosions of flour and uproarious laughter she couldn’t remember the last time she heard so often.

For so long, shoes had been the glue that made the Rivera family what it was. Riveras were shoe makers. Shoes were made by Riveras. It was that simple. Imelda had cut Héctor from her life and filled the empty space with shoes. But now, for the first time in decades, her family was reaching out beyond the world of leather and laces and Imelda couldn’t help but think she’d kept them trapped in her own obsession when they should have been building airplanes.

She asked the twins about it one night. “Is it my fault?”

“Your fault for what?” Óscar asked, spinning the propellor on a model airplane.

“For making you all join the family business.” She sighed and gestured to the model in his hands. “I forced all of you to make shoes with me when you would have been happier doing something else!”

Both Óscar and Felipe looked at her, clearly unimpressed. “Imelda,” Óscar began, “Making shoes was what kept us with a roof over our heads—” “—and enough food to eat,” Felipe went on, “Making shoes made our family survive.”

“Of course we had other dreams, but we weren’t the only ones who put them aside,” Óscar continued, and then they glanced at each other before Felipe added softly, “If we’re talking about lost happiness, the one who lost the most happiness…” “...was you,” Óscar finished, and they both smiled sadly in her direction.

“I—!” Imelda clamped her mouth shut and frowned. She didn’t know how to respond to that. “Well...well, then at least I shouldn’t have made you keep making shoes after we died!”

Again, the twins shared silent communication through a glance. “I was happy making shoes,” Felipe said with a shrug. “I think we all were,” Óscar went on. “You never forced any of us to do anything, and it’s good to make shoes.”

“Someone has to make shoes,” Felipe agreed.

Óscar gestured vaguely to his feet. “There are many skeletons out there who need shoes, afterall.”

“And Riveras make good shoes,” Felipe added with no small amount of pride.

“But maybe Día de Los Muertos didn’t just change things for you.” They both nodded at that and then turned back to her. “Seeing Miguel—” “—and seeing Héctor again—” “—made a lot of us think about our existence here—” “—and with you spending so much time with your…”

They paused and then raised identical eyebrows as they intoned, “— _special friend_ —”

“I think it made us curious about what else we could do—” Felipe said.

“Other than shoes,” Óscar finished.

Felipe took the model airplane from him and tested the bend of the balsa wood in the wing. “So there’s nothing you’re at fault for, Imelda. Don’t worry about it.”

Imelda left their room feeling slightly better and slightly worried about that bit about her ‘special friend’. Did they know? Had she been completely obvious?

Probably. At least to her brothers. They _knew_ her with Héctor, and she knew she’d been acting differently ever since she began visiting him. But she didn’t dare confront them about it, and hopefully no one else had connected the dots.

So on some days Héctor told her his stories, and on others she watched her family build and bake and explore.

But Riveras make good shoes, as was their reputation, and on top of that she lacked something to do with her family all over the place. So Imelda took advantage of a quiet workshop to begin stitching together a very important pair of shoes. Because shoes had always held the Rivera family together and it was time for that family to be whole. She played Ernesto de la Cruz’s records in the background and swapped him out for the right voice in her head, sang along when she knew the words and was sure no one else was around. Victoria watched her sometimes, and asked about the hand stitching Imelda was using, or why she was designing the color of the different leathers this certain way. “This stitch is sturdy,” Imelda explained. “But it creates bulk and takes away from the overall shape, so I don’t use it unless I know the person is particularly hard on shoes. That’s a Rivera secret, no one else uses this stitch. And I’m using this leather here—the one from the ofrenda—because it is supple but will still fit well around bone without rubbing. For most skeletons this will not matter, but for those whose bones ache, a little change will make all the difference.” Victoria nodded and Imelda could tell that she was jotting these notes away in her little mental book.

“Abuelita...” Victoria began one day, sitting in a chair near the window with leather and needle held in her hands, which was how Imelda knew something was wrong. Usually Victoria called her ‘Mamá Imelda’, like everyone else. ‘Abuelita’ was reserved for when she was feeling especially anxious or sad, though that was probably the only tell. Victoria was so very good at masking her emotions, too good really, and Imelda tended to forget that all too often. She was also almost certain Victoria was quite aware of all of this, and the change in her dialect was a very purposeful plea for help. She stopped stitching and turned towards her granddaughter, giving her her full attention. “What is it, mija?”

Victoria stared at Imelda for a moment and then lifted the piece of leather in her hand. “I’m practicing that new stitch you showed me.”

Which was good, but didn’t answer the question. “It will be odd to live with your mamá again, won’t it?” Imelda asked softly, and Victoria lowered the shoe back to the workbench and frowned.

“Sí.” She pressed her lips together hard, and then stared straight into Imelda’s eyes. “She’s lost so much, Abuelita. You’ve seen it, over the years. She just sits in that wheelchair and does nothing, says nothing, it’s almost like there’s nothing left of her at all! What if she...what if she gets here and…”

Imelda shuffled a little closer and put an arm around Victoria’s shoulder. “I’ve never met a skeleton who carried their illnesses with them into the afterlife, mija. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. She’ll just be very, very old.”

Victoria sighed and rubbed at her temples before straightening up. “Of course. I’m sorry. That was silly of me.” She pushed a stray hair back into place. It took more of a toll, Imelda knew, on Victoria that she had died before her time. The guilt over leaving her parents behind had alleviated somewhat by Julio’s passing not long after her own, but the guilt over leaving Elena just grew and festered with each passing year.

“Come.” Imelda stood and patted Victoria on the shoulder. “Let’s take a walk. My hand needs a break.”

As the weeks passed, the whole household seemed increasingly…’on edge’ would be the wrong choice of words, because they were all looking forward to Coco joining them. But Julio was now working desperately to finish the bedroom on time, and now the twins were trying to decide what to turn _his_ old bedroom into, and Victoria was anxious and Rosita was always baking and the sheer busyness of it all could give Imelda a headache. So she retreated to the workshop.

Imelda took her time with this pair of shoes, forcing patience on herself when every other part of her screamed that she didn’t have the time. She sketched up the designs a dozen times until she was happy, found the best materials she’d spirited away for use some day, made sure every piece was built to last because she was sure that, when it was time, Héctor would want to pass his shoes onto someone else who would need them. These shoes could be her finishing touch. She’d done everything else, hadn’t she? Stitched patches onto his trousers and fixed his vest? Kept his broken bones cleanly wrapped? Héctor looked so good these days as he told his stories, markings a colorful splash across his face and eyes bright, and Imelda could almost fool herself into thinking his bones looked whiter. There was no trace of exhaustion in his movements, and Imelda would have never guessed he was being forgotten.

She was always reminded of it, though, once she left the magic of the hut on the water. Time was passing. She finished the shoes one evening and hid them away under her bed in a box, because the finishing touch could wait, just a few more weeks maybe. Giving Héctor these would be…

It would be an ending.

But she got up out of bed in the middle of the night and pulled the box back out from under the bed. Better to have her ending now than lose the chance for one.

She packed the little box in her basket.

She wasn’t the only one expecting an ending, of course. It was a normal next morning when she met Héctor at the arch, her basket topped with oranges to share with anyone they met on the way. “We might have a slight detour,” Héctor told her, holding up fingers to demonstrate. “Rita and Bernardo agreed to move.”

“Really?” Imelda sighed in relief. “How did you convince them?”

“A piece of prime real estate, of course!” The way he said it made her eye him up immediately.

“Héctor…”

“They’ll need our help moving!” he said cheerfully, and turned to make their way towards the old Shantytown. Imelda gritted her teeth together, but there would be no getting answers out of him when he was _that_ determined to avoid the questions.

It was a beautiful day, at least. The sun was warm on her face, the sky decorated with little puffs of clouds. Héctor took her hand to help her along the rotting planks they walked along, and before long they were at Enrique’s odd tortoise shack. Rita and Bernardo were already waiting outside. Their things were wrapped up in neat blanket bundles. Rita looked excited while Bernardo just seemed nervous. He took a bundle in each arm when Héctor and Imelda approached.

“Here, give me one of those,” Héctor encouraged him, and Bernardo handed over one of the bundles obediently. Rita picked up a smaller bundle and held it with both hands. Imelda offered a smile and an arm for her to take. They could hang back and whisper in ways that made their husbands nervous.

Héctor and Bernardo didn’t seem to have any trouble with their loads, and it wasn’t long before they were stepping on newer, safer planks. The children poked their heads out of usual hiding places and gathered around Imelda and Rita’s skirts. Emilia pilfered an orange and just grinned mischievously when Imelda shot her a look. Other skeletons going about their business waved and called hello but kept their distance. Imelda imagined Héctor had talked to them about it. He’d been trying ever since that first introduction to get the new couple to move to a safer place, but Bernardo had been ever hesitant. Now, Imelda would be able to leave Shantytown feeling better knowing that they had relocated.

The walk was so automatic that Imelda didn’t even realize where they were heading before Rita piped up with the question. “So you said there was an empty house?”

“Oh, sí, sí, right there!” Héctor answered, and nodded towards his own hut, right where it always was. “Nice central location, helpful neighbors, and great view out the one side.” He glanced back at the children yammering and playing in a parade behind them. “It might be infested with some particularly large pests but I find a game of football always draws them out.”

Rita followed his gaze to the children and laughed, and some of the stress in Bernardo’s expression eased. Meanwhile, Imelda could feel herself tensing up with anger. What was he doing? What on earth was he doing?

The old blanket entrance had been replaced by a newer, nicer blanket with a pattern on it, which hung evenly from the nails. And the familiar inside had been swept clean and possibly even dusted. Imelda stared before remembering to turn around and usher the children back outside. There were some complaints, but someone had a ball and a game started within seconds. Imelda smiled at the sight before ducking back inside and continuing to scrutinize. Yes, someone had definitely dusted. There was no trace of Héctor’s belongings, but there was a small pile in the corner of what, when Imelda got closer, turned out to be presents. She recognized some of the food items she’d brought over recently, and there were some darned but clean clothes in there as well, and some pretty shells that must have been found near the bank of the river, strung on a piece of string and ready to hang for decoration.

Rita dropped her bundle and spun around the empty floor with a big smile, and then wandered to the open wall. “You can watch everything from here!”

“And everyone can see us!” Bernardo immediately protested, and turned to Héctor in a panic. “They can see us, right?”

“The previous occupant never had any trouble with that,” Héctor told him smoothly, and Imelda could just _kick_ him.

Bernardo, however, just replaced one worry with another. “The previous occupant? Did they...did they…” He lowered his voice and leaned in. “Did they die here?”

Héctor waved that aside. “No, they downsized. And I thought of you immediately.” He nodded over to Rita, staring out across the water. “It’s a great little place. I think you’ll fit right in, if you give it a chance.”

Bernardo stared at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, and then his eyes travelled to Imelda. And as much as she wanted to strangle Héctor, in this moment she couldn’t imagine doing anything but smiling and reaching out to pat his shoulder. “You’ll be happy here. I’m sure of it.”

He nodded, biting at his lip, and then put his own bundle of belongings down so he could join Rita admiring the water.

“We’ll let you two settle in,” Héctor said softly, and put down his own load carefully. “Just ask anyone around here if you need anything.”

Rita turned and nodded enthusiastically. “Thank you. We can’t repay you.”

“Keeping debts isn’t how we work out here.” Héctor tipped his hat and backed towards the door. Imelda followed his lead, and so ended up stopping when he did, staring a little wistfully around the little hut that he’d called home for so long. Imelda was about to reach out and touch his arm when he turned and pushed through the blanket back into the sun.

The children were still playing on the nearby boardwalk, but they abandoned the game quickly with the prospect of lunch. Héctor helped Imelda pass out the oranges, and then they sat at the edge of the boardwalk. Imelda took her boots off so they could both dangle their feet in the water. Some of the children sat next to them and Emilia took her favorite spot behind Imelda. It was no place to start an argument, so Imelda held back. And Héctor knew exactly what he was doing too. After everyone was done eating, he organized a massive game of tag that stretched on for hours and it was only after the children had run off for the night that he finally rejoined Imelda. Rita and Bernardo hadn’t left the hut, but Imelda supposed that wasn’t a bad sign. At least they hadn’t tried to sneak back to Enrique’s. And Bernardo might set aside his reservations seeing Rita so happy, or so she hoped. She took Héctor hand when he sat next to her and sighed. “You could have told me.”

“I didn’t really know I was doing it until yesterday,” he admitted. “I went to see them to talk them into moving before realizing that Mika and Joel had a fight and split into different homes. But I won’t need this one for much longer, and it’s a nice place for a young couple.” He frowned out across the water. “She’s fading, Imelda.”

She studied his hand in hers, ran her own finger down the worn down grooves that still did and would probably forever mark his bones. “You can tell?”

He nodded and placed a hand over his chest. “It doesn’t feel like it did last time. Maybe because of Miguel, but I can’t know for sure. I still feel strong but…” He turned to her, one shoulder raised in a hopeless shrug. “A few weeks, maybe?”

A few weeks. Imelda repeated it a few times to herself and then leaned into him, smiled as his arm slipped around her shoulders. Alright, a few weeks. No use making a fuss. And no use crying about it now. “So where will you stay for the next few weeks?”

“Since it’s Mika and Joel’s fault, I’ll show up on one of their doorsteps.”

“Hmm.” Imelda splashed her feet gently through the water.

He caught onto the tone in her voice immediately. “What’s ‘hmm’?”

“It’s just a hmm, it doesn’t mean anything in particular,” she tried to lie, but she saw his eyes narrow in suspicion. She drew her feet up and dried them in her skirt before putting her boots back on as casually as she could. “So it doesn’t seem like you’ll be the invalid at all,” she said as she laced the second boot, and he followed along with a happy little sound.

“Well, who wants to spend their last days lying in a bed? This is much better.” He nodded decisively. “Yes, much better.”

Imelda reached for his hand, and then kissed it and held it to her cheek. He unfurled his fingers and stroked beside her eye with his thumb as she asked, “And where is all your stuff now?”

“Grace is watching it. I think I’ll give the guitar to her, if you don’t mind. She likes it quite a bit. And I can teach her a few chords at least.”  

Imelda leaned into his touch, eyes going shut. She agreed. This was better. Once she’d hated the thought of having no way of knowing when time was up, but she’d already had enough of seeing him glowing golden in a bed, and she couldn’t stomach the idea of watching him weaken day by day. Let the final death take him happy and painless. Even if it meant she would never know which touch was the last one. It was why the little box had made its way with her today. She enjoyed the feel of his fingers against her face for a moment longer, then steadied herself, opened her eyes, and reached for her basket. “I have a present for you.”

He frowned and pulled his hand from her cheek. “I’ll have to pass it on, you know.”

“I know. I kept that in mind while I made them.” Imelda pushed aside the few orange peels that had been left behind in her basket and uncovered the box. She brushed it off carefully and handed it to Héctor, who held it in his lap and froze there, like he was afraid to take off the lid.

“It’s not a trap,” Imelda said after a moment, and he nodded a little to himself before seeming to wake up. He turned to her and grinned.

“Another guitar, yes?”

“Oh, for…” She reached over and flipped the lid off herself. “Shoes.”

He whistled low and played with one of the laces. “Genuine Rivera shoes?”

She nodded and crossed her arms contentedly. “Try them on. I’m sure I got the fit right but I want to be sure.”

Héctor moved very slowly as he withdrew his feet from the river so he could put the shoes on. He admired the stitching, the tread of the sole, the leather. He knotted the laces of one shoe easily, and then started to put on the other while Imelda leaned over and started poking around, making certain she’d gotten the size right. She hadn’t wanted to measure his feet and give herself away, but it looked like she’d done good enough guessing. The shoes fit well, and Héctor laughed a little as he stood and brought her with him. “Dressed up like a proper gentleman, eh?” he asked, and danced a few steps, grinning madly. Imelda couldn’t help but laugh as well.

“They suit you.”

“Well, of course. They’re Rivera shoes.” He stopped suddenly and frowned down at his feet. “Was it...was it bad, making shoes? It can’t have been too bad, right?” And then his gaze was on her, practically pleading for the answer he wanted to hear. “It can’t have been too bad, if you kept doing it here?”

She was thrown back to her conversation with the twins. Imelda pursed her lips and took both of Héctor’s shoulders in hand. “I can’t lie and say it was always easy, but on the whole? The life of a shoemaker is not a bad one. Besides, I make very good shoes, wouldn’t you say?”

His frown didn’t disappear, but it was directed back downwards. “ _You_ made these?”

“Just for you,” she answered, and then added with a little roll of her eyes, “And whoever you choose to give them to, I suppose. And the person after that.” When he didn’t reply, she went on, “Did you think I just happened to have a pair of shoes in your size sitting around? Please, our shoes are very coveted. If you weren’t family you might have to wait years for a pair.” That was a gross exaggeration, of course, but it made him smile again. She brushed the hair from his eyes and patted his cheek in appeasement. “You didn’t leave us to starve, and I enjoy making shoes. I know that…” It was her turn to crease her brow, “I know things were...messy...with Miguel, and that is mostly my fault, but for the most part, our family was and is happy. I’m sorry you never got to see them.” He shrugged one shoulder but she continued, shaking her head slightly side to side. “Don’t take on any more guilt than you already have, alright? Everything is considered forgiven.” He didn’t look at all reprieved. Imelda just watched his troubled expression for a moment before reaching for his hands and forcibly dragged them to her waist.

Héctor stumbled forward, new shoes much louder than his bare feet had been on the wooden boards. “Imelda, what—”

“We’re dancing,” she told him firmly, and took his shoulders, forcing them around in an awkward circle.

“No music, mi amor,” he said quietly, sounding faintly amused, and she just shut her eyes and kept going.

“I’m imagining your song in my head. That new one. The one with no words.”

“Ah.” His hands strengthened their grip on her waist. “Then you are going just a bit too fast.”

Imelda let him take over, spinning them in a slow circle around and around a single piece of the boardwalk, the moon rising in the sky above them and the sunset dying to make room for stars reflected in the river below them. Their shoes tapped a simple rhythm, over and over again, the easiest of duets. Other skeletons passed on other walkways and Imelda felt a few eyes now and again, but no one interrupted or called out to them. Occasionally Héctor would tap his feet in some fancy footwork and grin, evidently very pleased with the sound the shoes made, but mostly they just swayed in that small circle.

In a day, I might come here and he will be gone, Imelda thought, and brought her hands from his shoulders to loop around his neck instead. I must be okay with that.

It took her a little while to realize that Héctor was muttering something under his breath. When she gave him an inquisitive look, he looked rather bashful. “Still trying to find the words.”

“You were always so good with the words though,” she said.

“Yes, you did say that once,” he agreed. “But apparently not when it comes to the most important ones. It took me months to come up with words to ‘Remember Me’. The entire time Ernesto and I were making our plans, the entire time I was getting ready to leave, I was still trying to find words to that song.”

Imelda hummed and let them keep dancing for another moment. “What’s important about this song?”

“Ahhh, well…” Bashful turned to full blown embarrassment. “I thought that...I…” He looked carefully away from her and up to the night sky. “I thought I might write a song for you too. Like ‘Remember Me’, but yours. So you might...aha, remember me, in fact…” He trailed off, still staring resolutely at the moon.

“Héctor.” Imelda tightened her arms around his neck. “I won’t need a song for that.”

He laughed, too bright and brittle. “Good thing, eh? Since I can’t come up with the right words anyway.”

She thought the song was beautiful without words. She’d thought it was beautiful when it was mere snatches of sound from a new guitar. But it wouldn’t do any good to tell him that. Héctor had been nothing but a perfectionist when it came to music and his own worst critic by far.

“It’s funny,” Héctor murmured, so quiet she wasn’t sure he meant for her to hear it, but then he met her eyes and lifted one hand from her waist to skim fingers down her cheek. “How I can be prepared to die and leave you, leave Coco, Miguel, everyone here...but I get so angry thinking about an unfinished song.”

She stared at him for a long moment and then leaned in so she could rest her head against his chest. “I’ll think of the words, one day. Or wait, and ask Miguel when he arrives. I’m sure he’ll come up with some wonderful words for your song.”

Predictably, one of his hands began to fiddle with her braids while the other ran up and down her spine as they continued their dance. “That’s a good idea,” he agreed, sounding pleased. “Miguel will do a good job.”

Imelda shut her eyes and focused on the steady tap-tap of their feet and the sound of the lazy river flowing past. “Sí.” He would.

She could hear the bonfires starting up, all across Shantytown. People gathering, talking, laughing, breaking out the tequila. Somewhere, music began to play, but it was too far for Imelda to even make out the tune. Héctor did stop dancing though and pulled away. “I’m going to check on Rita and Bernardo,” he told her, and Imelda watched him go along the boardwalk the short distance they’d settled from his old shack. Her eyes weren’t good enough to see anything other than the entrance being drawn aside, but a minute later, Héctor was heading back to her looking pleased. “They feel up to meeting a few folks.”

Which was good. It was very good. And it was good of Héctor to remember the young couple so he could introduce them to those who would help after he was gone. Imelda still felt cheated out of her dance. It was hard to hold a grudge though, with Rita and Bernardo walking with them. Rita went ahead with Héctor, headed for the bonfires. Imelda dawdled with Bernardo. He was very jumpy, and Imelda began to believe this was just a natural state of being rather than an effect of being out in Shantytown.

“It can be overwhelming, coming here from the city,” she told him in a low voice as Rita and Héctor chattered away ahead. “I know. I’d never been to Shantytown before not too long ago and I’ve been dead for decades.” She glanced at Bernardo’s anxious face and added, “We don’t treat the forgotten well.”

Bernardo agreed with a little shake of his head.

“But the forgotten treat the forgotten well,” Imelda told him firmly. “Everyone is a cousin. Everyone belongs. And I can come by and check on you, if you like.”

He paused for a moment, but then nodded and shot her a little smile. “That would be nice.”

Imelda reached over and patted his shoulder. “Then expect me, alright? And ready yourself now. I think everyone is very excited to meet you.”

Héctor and Rita led them into a junction, where a bonfire blazed happily and skeletons sat about sharing stories and alcohol, laughing and shouting greetings when they saw Héctor coming. Rita bustled back to grab Bernardo and drag him with her into the center of everything. She didn’t need anything more than an introduction from Héctor to start making friends, and Héctor returned to Imelda’s side with a content little smile. They stood apart on the boardwalk, not quite at the junction, and went mostly ignored. Imelda was sure Héctor meant it that way. Had he told the others he was dying? That he had only a few more weeks at most? It would be quite a change, Imelda knew, since he had been here so long and, unlike Enrique, lived among them, cheerful and roguish Cousin Héctor. Imelda would have to keep coming back, she knew, even if only for the children. She’d grown too attached to them to be able to leave now. Would that be the rest of her existence here in the Land of the Dead? Caring for the forgotten until she became one of them herself? Well, there were worse things.

The Rivera name held a lot of sway. How would the city architects—who orchestrated the great spiraling towers of the Land of the Dead—react when she arrived at their office, demanding a place for the forgotten among the rest of them? Quickly, she imagined. Especially if she brought reinforcements. She tidied the thought away for the future. Definitely something to consider.

“You should probably be heading home,” Héctor murmured after they spent some time watching Rita and Bernardo settle into the collection of skeletons. Imelda nodded and the two of them snuck off towards the shore. Héctor walked with one arm looped casually around her waist, humming to himself. Not his wordless song, but snatches of other melodies. Music came to him as easy as breathing. Easier, now, she supposed, considering he had no lungs.

Too soon, they reached the arch that marked the separation of their worlds. Héctor let go of her waist reluctantly and drew a few steps backwards. “So, I’ll see you again?”

“Hopefully.” Imelda tried to keep her voice light, but the word fell flat and depressing. “Ah!” she continued in an overly bright tone, trying to smooth things over, “So I guess you had better go find a place...a place to sleep.”

Héctor crossed an arm across his chest and nodded. “Sí, sí, I had better do that. And you should be getting home.”

Imelda nodded and fiddled with the basket on her arm. Neither of them moved. After a minute of silence, Imelda sighed and sat down on the steps, chin in her hands. Héctor came to kneel in front of her, brushing her hair back, fiddling with her apron. “What’s wrong, mi amor?”

Imelda stared helplessly at his face, so young, so bright in the moonlight. How could she say goodbye, knowing that it might be for the last time? She took his fussing hands and held them tight in her own. “Remember when you first left? You said that it would be easier because then you would have less people to lose.”

He tilted his head to the side, looking puzzled. “I might have said that, sí?”

“Well you were wrong.” She squeezed his hands tight in hers. “And you know it, too! Because if it was easier, you never would have gotten to know all those people you’ve lost. You wouldn’t have any of their stories to share.”

His eyes went wide. “Imelda…”

“It’s better to have something to lose than to exist with nothing!” she insisted, and bit her bottom lip for a moment before turning her face away. “Héctor, after you left with Ernesto, I chose to believe that you had never loved me at all so that way I could pretend I hadn’t really lost a husband. I’d just been tricked by a conman.” She shut her eyes tight and shook her head. “I was wrong. I know I was wrong. And I hurt myself by making that my truth. It would have been better to know that you loved me and had some good reason for not returning. I wouldn’t have torn the photograph. I wouldn’t…”

_The one who lost the most happiness was you._

“I want your family to meet you,” she croaked, and stood abruptly, tearing their hands apart. She fled up a couple of steps and then looked back down at him, still kneeling with head cocked. “I want them to know you as you are now, not in the stories I tell. And I know that I am then giving them something to lose, and I am giving you more to lose as well, but _Héctor,_ please believe me when I say it is better to lose people you love than to never have them.” Her basket dropped to the steps with a little thump, slipping from hopeless fingers. “Please,” she whispered, and wrapped her arms around herself. “Please come home with me. Even if it’s just one night, please come home.”

She stared down at her shoes as she heard him stand and follow her up the steps. Tap, tap, tap of new shoes on stone. “You mean that?” he asked, voice rough, and she nodded.

“I have gotten to know and love your family here. So please, let your other family know you, let them love you, let them miss you. Come home, Héctor.”

There was a pause, and then he laughed, his fake little laugh, and Imelda looked up to watch him fiddle with his suspenders as he stared somewhere off to her left. “Well, only if you’ll have me. I wasn’t looking forward to Mika and Joel, to be quite—”

Imelda grabbed his face with both hands and kissed him.

It wasn’t anything like she remembered, which was exactly why she had avoided it for so many weeks now. His lips were hard bone, cold, not supple at all. But then, kissing in life had been sort of slimy, and at least their noses weren’t presenting a problem anymore, and, despite all the differences, it was still Héctor. Still Héctor who froze against her, and then melted into her, surging up another step and wrapping an arm around her waist while his free hand threaded through her braids, unravelling ribbons and sending her hair falling about her shoulders. She opened her mouth to gasp and then kissed him again, whisked his hat off his head so at least they both looked somewhat disheveled, ran her fingers below his eyes to the patterns like leaves across his cheekbones, and then—because she was herself—grabbed his chin to angle the kiss just a little more to her liking. He laughed at that, a real laugh this time, and it was impossible not to at least giggle, and then he was lining kisses from the corner of her mouth to her jaw and it was a very good thing she didn’t actually need to breathe anymore. Imelda let her head fall to the side and smiled at the familiar sensation of kiss after kiss after kiss. This was completely scandalous and inappropriate for people of their age and she loved it, wished it would never stop. Héctor reached the place right beneath her ear and then he paused and muttered to himself, “That spot on your neck is gone.” He sounded so put out about it that Imelda giggled again, and then the giggle turned into a snort, and she leaned against him for support as she began to laugh, stifling the sound with one hand while the other tried to assess the damage done to her braids. “I liked that spot on your neck,” Héctor grumbled, and Imelda rolled her eyes before leaning in and kissing him again, short but sweet.

“You ruined my hair,” she said, leaning their foreheads together.

“Well, you attacked me,” he replied airily, waving one hand in the air.

“I _kissed_ you.”

“It was a very effective attack.” He looked down and then pulled away to fetch his hat from the steps. He tugged it back on and grinned lopsidedly at her. “I am at your mercy.”

Imelda didn’t honor that with a reply. She quickly undid all the braids Héctor hadn’t managed to and shook her hair out before re-braiding everything from scratch. Héctor started forward at some point as if to help and she sidestepped quickly away. If he started playing with her hair then she’d probably kiss him again and they’d be here all night. “Ah, ah, ah! Go get your stuff from Grace!”

He huffed dramatically but trotted back down the steps to the boardwalk. Imelda did up her braids, tied her ribbons, and ran back down to the river to check her reflection in the dark water. It wasn’t a great mirror, but she didn’t look too disheveled. Not like she’d been kissing the daylights out of her husband on the steps of Shantytown, at least.

It didn’t take Héctor long to return, the box with the guitar slung over his shoulder and everything else wrapped in a blanket. His journal of bridge crossing plans. The few props he had left over from those attempts. Such a strange collection of things she’d have to remember him by. He smiled when he joined her and twined their hands together. “Want to break our record for shortest time? I know three trolleys we can catch if we start now!”

Imelda met his eye and tried to fight back her smile. She failed spectacularly and shook her head hopelessly. “Alright. For the record then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've learned my lesson about promising updates, but I will try to have the next chapter out within 2 weeks. Thank you all for reading!!! I hoped you liked this update and will continue to enjoy the story to the end!  
> Also, thank you to those who came and sent me encouraging messages while I was taking so long. I felt unbelievably better about things reading your kind words so please know they were very very very much appreciated.  
> Take care!  
> UPDATE: i swear to god this isn't abandoned, i've just not had the proper time to devote to writing an ending worth reading lately. but it's always on my mind. soon.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tap dances nervously across the stage*  
> So it's been a while and I'm not going to start with the excuses. I'm sorry this took me such a long time. Thank you for still reading!!   
> Special shoutout to Jesters_of_the_Moon for sorta kicking my rear in gear, this probably would have taken another six months without them. Thank you.

It was on the final stretch up to the house that Imelda realized she didn’t have a plan on how to tell her family she was finally bringing her husband home. It was late, but not late enough to hope everyone was already asleep and she could put off this problem until the morning. They’d been too fast on the trolleys, which, in hindsight, had seemed more packed than their usual midnight runs. She turned to Héctor and put a hand against his chest to stop him short. “They can’t see you yet.”

He blinked. “I don’t know how to turn invisible, Imelda.” 

“No, no, I mean...they don’t know to expect you. If I just drag you through the front door it will be…” She scowled up towards the house. “...awkward.” 

Héctor spoke very slowly when he finally replied. “O-kay. Would you like me to go back to Shantytown? Because I can do that.” 

“No!” Why did this have to be so complicated all of a sudden? “How about...how about you wait outside, and I’ll see if anyone is still up. When they’re all asleep, I’ll come get you and we can go up to my room and..and...and figure things out in the morning.” 

He shot her a doubtful look and adjusted the guitar on his back. “It will be...less awkward, you say, if I come out of your bedroom in the morning?”

Imelda stared at him as the idea played out in her mind and then buried her face in her hands. “You’re right. I don’t know how to do this.” 

His finger chucked under his chin. “It’s alright, Imelda. The last time we all spent the night together, if I remember correctly, we all dressed up as Frida Kahlo, infiltrated the Sunrise Spectacular, you sang on stage in front of thousands and thousands of people  _ and _ Miguel nearly died.  _ I _ nearly died. There was a lot of almost dying. Whatever happens now can’t be worse than that, right?”

Imelda lowered her hands and shrugged a little with a nod. He was right. She just needed a little perspective. 

Pepita began to purr from the rooftop when she saw Imelda and her tail flicked side to side as her eyes turned to Héctor and watched him approach. 

“She doesn’t like me,” he whispered to Imelda, carefully keeping her in between him and the alebrije. 

“That’s only because I was mad at you,” Imelda answered easily, brushing that concern aside. “If you give her treats and stop calling her ‘the cat monster’ then she’ll love you.” 

Héctor made a small doubting ‘eh’, but followed Imelda up to the kitchen door. They both stared through the nearest window. No one there. “Alright, I’ll go in, see who’s still up,” Imelda ordered, and opened the kitchen door as quietly as she could. No need to attract undesired attention until she was ready. She would go poke her head into the bedrooms instead. She snuck towards the hallway on the tips of her toes, and reached the staircase up to the second story before she noticed the light coming from the workshop. The twins, building airplanes perhaps? But they were more likely to be asleep by now, given how early they liked to rise. Imelda frowned and made her way down the hall to the workshop. 

Victoria. She was bent over a pair of shoes, needle and thread in hand. 

“Victoria?” Imelda called from the doorway, and Victoria’s head snapped up so fast it nearly dislodged her glasses. She frowned and fixed them on the bridge of what was left of her nose before staring back at Imelda. She smiled her tight little smile.

“Mamá Imelda.” 

“Has everyone else gone to bed?” 

Victoria shook her head. “I believe that Papa is still painting, and Tia Rosita went to the market.” 

“This late?” Imelda couldn’t keep the anxious shrill from her voice. 

Victoria nodded. “She said she forgot to buy something when she was out this afternoon. Pepita wouldn’t come down for her though, so Tio Óscar and Felipe went with her.” 

Well, they couldn’t actually die. Imelda put her hands on her hips and took a few steps until she could look down the hall towards the guest bedroom. Yes, there was a light coming from there. So, Victoria and Julio at home, with the others out. 

“I noticed you finished the shoes,” Victoria said after a moment of silence. “Were they appreciated?” 

Imelda hesitated and leaned against the doorway to think. This...would be right. Victoria had been born, lived, and died without music, with a mysterious blank space in her family tree that Imelda had never filled. It would make sense to start with this. “Would you like to see?” Imelda finally asked. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I brought someone home with me tonight.” Imelda smiled a little ruefully and stepped back into the workshop. “I know I’m not a subtle person. I’m sure you all know who I’ve been seeing.” 

Victoria’s eyes flew wide open. “Home? He’s here?”

No hesitation at all. They really  _ had _ all known who she was sneaking off to see. Not just her brothers, but her whole family. How embarrassing. But that would have to wait. “He’s waiting outside the kitchen door for me to come fetch him.” Imelda walked back over to Victoria and took one of her hands, giving it a squeeze. “Would you like to meet your grandfather?  _ Really _ meet him?”

“I—” Victoria used her free hand to pat back her hair and adjust her glasses. “Well, that is…”

“Stay here,” Imelda told her in a soft voice, and walked very slowly from the room until she was out of sight, and then she picked up her skirts and hustled. 

Héctor was sitting on the step outside. She almost took him out when she ran out to look for him. He straightened his hat and stared up at her. “Can I come in?” 

“I want you to meet Victoria,” Imelda explained, lending a hand to get him upright with his belongings. “She deserves to meet you.” 

“Uh oh, what’d she do?” he whispered, and dodged when Imelda tried to elbow him. “Ah ah ah! Trying to injure a dying man?”

Imelda grabbed his suspenders and hauled him through the door. “You can only play that card so many times.” 

He straightened his hat and grinned down at her as the door shut behind him. “How many times do I have left?” 

Imelda stared at him for a moment before sighing and grumbling as she fixed his his clothes and divested him of his belongings. Only the guitar box stayed slung across his back. “Now, the twins and Rosita are out, so it’s only Julio and Victoria right now. Please don’t tease Julio, he is very bad at realizing what’s a joke and what is not. And Victoria—”

“Abuelita?” 

Héctor and Imelda both jumped and spun to face the doorway. Victoria peered at them from the hallway, halfway hidden by the doorframe. Imelda watched her meet Héctor’s eyes and the both of them quickly looked away, Héctor crossing an arm across his chest and Victoria fiddling with her glasses. They could have been strangers meeting, with the limited amount of time Héctor had spent with them all last Día de Los Muertos. Of course, Héctor had heard all of Imelda’s stories about his grandchildren, but that only meant that he knew them as characters, not as family, and Victoria didn’t know him at all. 

Maybe this had been a mistake. 

Héctor was the first to break the silence. “Hola Victoria,” he said softly, and slowly let his arms fall down to his sides. “It’s…” He paused, and then sucked in breath with eyes shut. When he opened his eyes again, Imelda could see the fakeness there, that Cousin Héctor facade that he was so used to relying on. “Sorry to darken your doorway once more” he went on with a playful smile and sweeping hand gestures, as overdramatic as could be and Imelda steeled herself for a headache. “I won’t trouble you long, don’t worry. Just popping in and I’ll pop right back out again. But it’s good to see you.”  He leaned nonchalantly against the counter with an easy grin and dodged again when Imelda tried to smack him behind her back. 

Victoria frowned. “It’s good to see you too,” she replied, bland and automatic, and then her eyes turned to Imelda. “I’m sorry I didn’t wait, I just had to…” 

Imelda nodded and waved the apology away. Yes, there was the headache. “It’s alright. Why don’t we all go to the workshop?” 

Victoria took the cue and escaped quickly. Imelda started for the doorway and paused when she realized Héctor wasn’t following. Cousin Héctor would have been hot on her heels, probably skipping. Something had changed. “Héctor?” she called, turning back. 

Cousin Héctor wasn’t there anymore. The mask had slipped off as easily as it had come on, and he stared at her with terror in his eyes, merely a man once more. “I don’t think I can do this,” he whispered. His fingers gripped the counter like it was all holding him to the world. 

Maybe this really had been a mistake. “Why wouldn’t you?” Imelda quickly crossed back to him and took his elbow, offering support other than a rather floury countertop. Did he look pale? Could skeletons even look more pale?

“Well,” he laughed, nervous and rather manic, “I think we’ve both established that last time I had a family I completely messed it up.” 

She stared up at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Finally, Imelda reached over so she could break his grip on the counter, finger by finger. “You won’t mess this up.” 

He made a small whining sound as she fought to undo his ring finger. “How do you know that?” 

Imelda caught his hand as it came loose from the counter, felt the flour between their fingers, and leaned up to kiss him beside his mouth. “You’ve looked after your Shantytown family for almost a century, haven’t you?” 

He went very still for a few seconds before his brow furrowed. “That’s not the same, is it?” 

“I think it’s close enough.” Imelda led him to the kitchen doorway with both hands, careful not to trip as she maneuvered her way through the hallway to the workshop. She stroked her thumbs over the backs of his hands. “You’ll be fine. Just…” She stopped, and he crowded into her space, still looking incredibly nervous. Imelda detangled one of her hands so she could reach up and trace her fingers across his face. “Be you. Not Cousin Héctor. Cousin Héctor is not the one I want your family to meet.” 

He peered down at her and gave a hopeless little sigh. “I’ve been Cousin Héctor for a long time, Imelda. I’m not always sure where he stops and where...and where  _ I  _ begin.” 

“That’s alright.” Imelda put her hands on his shoulder so she could reach up and kiss him very briefly on the lips. “Just...think about it like it was Coco. How you were with her. That’s…” 

That’s the truest self she’d ever seen from him, soul laid bare for one little girl. 

Héctor nodded, and leaned down for one more kiss before Imelda led him into the workshop. 

Victoria was standing by the window, fingers tapping as she drummed them against her arm. She turned when she heard Imelda and Héctor enter. Again, she and Héctor locked eyes, but this time, instead of putting on his facade, Héctor very gently extricated himself from Imelda’s hold and walked halfway to the window before getting down on one knee. Just how he would with Coco, and Imelda wanted to run after him and coax him up, but already Héctor had taken the guitar box from off his back and slipped off the lid. 

“I heard that you didn’t grow up with any music, Victoria,” Héctor said softly as he took the guitar and began to tune it. It didn’t take long. “I guess you can’t miss what you never had, but I also guess that it was my fault. Children should have music in their lives.” He sat cross-legged with the guitar in his lap. “Actually, everyone should have music in their lives, and since I stole that from you, maybe I could give you some music in death?” He looked up at her, looking so very small and fragile next to the neat white lines of the guitar, and Victoria only paused a moment before glancing towards Imelda—who nodded—and going to sit nearby, her own skirts and apron pooling around her legs. 

“I would like that very much,” she muttered, and then looked toward the record player in the corner. “We have been listening to some music now, and Ernesto de la Cruz’s records, so we could know your songs.” 

Imelda knew Héctor made a face at the name, and Victoria smiled in response. “Well, let’s steal a song from someone else, shall we? Now, I heard this song a couple of times but it was after my death, so sorry if I mess up a few times…” 

He played a few chords while Imelda made her way to a stool where she could watch both Victoria’s and Héctor’s expressions. 

“Okay, okay,” she heard him whisper, “I think I got this.” 

The song started quiet, but grew as Héctor’s confidence did. Victoria sat with rapt attention, hands fisted in her skirt. Imelda couldn’t help but imagine a different life, a life where Héctor had come back to her, a life where Héctor might have sat just like this, with a little Elena and Victoria watching him play with Imelda and Coco listening in from whatever they were doing. And Héctor would dance with his grandchildren the same way he had with Coco when she was a child, and then meet Imelda’s gaze and silently ask her with just one look to sing with him and she would, and it would be a magical moment hidden among the mundane, magic moments that made life all the more worth it. Magic moments that made a household full of smiles and laughter and music sung from the rooftops and no torn pictures, a household with a full ofrenda with each and every member of their family remembered and celebrated. 

Of course, it was no good imagining. Ernesto had seen to that. Imelda would have to hold onto this moment here, and make it magic, as Héctor began to sing.

 

_ “Tú eres la tristeza de mis ojos _

_ Que lloran en silencio por tu amor _

_ Me miro en el espejo y veo en mi rostro _

_ El tiempo que he sufrido por tu adiós _

_ Obligo a que te olvide el pensamiento _

_ Pues siempre estoy pensando en el ayer _

_ Prefiero estar dormida que despierta _

_ De tanto que me duele que no estés…” _

 

Imelda saw Julio appear in the doorway, obviously drawn by the sound. His hat was swept off and held in front of him as his eyes darted around nervously. He looked to Imelda, who gestured him into the room. Héctor paused for a moment when he noticed the new addition, but then simply nodded and kept going. 

 

_ “Como quisiera, ay, que tú vivieras _

_ Que tus ojitos jamás se hubieran cerrado nunca _

_ Y estar mirándolos _

_ Amor eterno, e inolvidable _

_ Tarde o temprano estaré contigo _

_ Para seguir amándonos…” _

 

Imelda pressed her lips together tight. She had no idea whether she’d died before this song or not, but she was glad Héctor was too busy watching and reacting to Victoria or he might notice the way she pressed a hand to her chest. 

 

I would really like that you were alive,

That your eyes had never ever closed

and I would still be looking at them.

Eternal love, so unforgettable,

Sooner or later I will join you,

So we can continue our love.

 

Héctor started to forget the lyrics halfway through and easily switched to  _ La Sandunga _ , which made Victoria stifle a laugh in her hand. Héctor grinned in response and his playing and singing grew louder, more assured. “That was a sad song anyway,” he said with a shrug in a pause between verses. “But  _ this  _ one reminds me of your abuelita.”

“I can still kick you out,” Imelda called, and even Julio laughed before moving closer. Héctor took the opportunity to begin teaching them both the chorus, and even Imelda was chiming in after a few moments. She didn’t even hear the twins and Rosita come back from the market and was so absorbed in the song that she didn’t notice them in the doorway until Óscar knocked. Héctor faltered and looked over his shoulder at the newcomers. 

“Ah, I have a bone to pick with you two!” he called, singling out the twins and then waving sweetly at Rosita. “Ah, my apparently daughter-in-law! Everyone loves your cooking in Shantytown! I finally get to pass on the compliment!” 

Rosita made a happy trilling noise and went to sit next to her brother. “I just bought the ingredients for a flan! Would they like flan?” 

Héctor nodded emphatically and slapped a hand over his heart. “On my reputation as a complete scoundrel…” 

“Ahem!” Imelda interrupted from her stool and Héctor winced before trying again, “On my reputation as a…not entirely always truthful per—Imelda, what would you have me swear on?” he asked in complete exasperation when she cleared her throat again. “I don’t have many qualities to choose from!” 

Imelda crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him. “Musician and father.” 

“But—” 

“ _ Musician and father _ .” 

“I don’t remember them being quite like this,” Felipe said in a very loud whisper and Imelda turned her glare on them. 

“You don’t get to comment!” 

“Yes, how dare you be taller than me!” Héctor interjected, spinning in place on the floor and pointing an accusing finger. “You were tiny little sprouts when I left, I barely recognized you!”

The twins gave him matching exasperated looks. “You are accusing  _ us _ ,” “Of looking different in the afterlife?” “Wait, are we actually taller than you?” “Should we check?” “The hats add height, I think so maybe,” “It would be best to take the victory when we can, yes?” They nodded at each other and then turned to Héctor to say firmly, “Yes, we are taller than you!” 

Héctor let the guitar rest in his lap so he could narrow his eyes at them. “I think a proper measurement will be be in order. Oh, and Rosita!” He slapped a hand over where his heart had been once more. “On my honor as a musician and father and scoundrel and all about headache for your poor mother-in-law…” He winked at Imelda. “...I promise that those in Shantytown will love your flan and would probably worship at your feet if they ever met you.” He took a deep breath and spun back around. “Anyway, I was in the middle of a song, so if you’ll excuse me…” 

Victoria was definitely biting back a smile by then, but she got drawn back into the music easily. She reminded Imelda so much of her mother in those moments, eyes bright and expression eager, drinking up everything Héctor had to offer, though anyone not used to her subdued nature may have missed it. Héctor played a few old folk tunes for her to learn, and the others were patient enough to let her get the hang of it before joining in. No one else there, after all, had been born into the household of no music. Eventually the folk songs ran out, and he began taking requests, even if that request was someone singing the little bit of a song they knew and Héctor trying to wing it from there. Whenever one of his own songs was requested, Héctor scoffed and said that was garbage and moved onto the next one, by now with his family sitting in a half-circle around him. The flickering candlelight cast an air of intimacy over the entire scene, and Imelda felt something inside her ache in a pleasant way as she watched her family bond over music. So much of the harm she had done being repaired. And Héctor smiled and laughed and screwed up chords and gently teased and slipped into his role in their family perhaps without even realizing he was doing so. Just like he’d slipped into that role with Miguel. Papa Héctor fit him better than Cousin Héctor ever had, and this time, it was not a facade. Not in the least. 

Imelda hated to break up the song session, but it was getting so late that the twins might as well just be up for the new day. Héctor exchanged a few sparring words with Óscar and Felipe before promising to look at their latest airplane designs and assured Rosita once more that her cooking was beyond compare and greatly appreciated. Julio was left, nervously twisting his hat. Imelda watched Héctor open his mouth for some teasing comment, she was sure, but at the last moment he seemed to remember her warning and kneeled down instead so he and Julio were eye to eye. “You are w-welcome to stay in the g-guest room,” Julio managed to stutter out, “Bu-but I’ve been...I’ve been preparing it for C-Coco…” 

“The one room in the house I know and you go and change it on me,” Héctor said with an exaggerated sigh, before remembering again and pulling himself together. No teasing Julio. “That’s quite fine, Julio, thanks for the warning. I’m sure there’s some bench I can sleep on somewhere.” 

Julio just looked mortified at forcing Héctor to sleep on a bench. Imelda slipped off her stool and walked around so she could lean down and place her hands on Héctor’s shoulders. 

“Héctor is my husband and will stay with me,” she said calmly, even as she felt Héctor tense beneath her palms. No, they hadn’t talked about this per say, but what else could Héctor suspect? That she would really stick him in the guest room?

Julio looked very relieved, however, and scuttled out of the room as fast as he legs could carry him. 

“We’re sharing a bedroom?” Héctor asked, tilting his head back. 

“We’re married,” Imelda scolded, and then remembered the quiet figure still sitting on the floor. Héctor smiled at Victoria, and she smiled back, small but true. “Thank you,” she said quietly, and gestured to the guitar. “It’s been a while since...well, I’ve never actually done that before.” 

“I know.” Héctor nodded and went to put the guitar in its box. “I’m sorry that my mistakes…”

“They’re forgiven,” Victoria interrupted, and then coughed and stood. She brushed off her apron and skirt and pushed back her shoulders, transformed from the child eager for a song back into her usual dignified self. “Your mistakes,” she clarified almost at once, “Your mistakes are forgiven. By me, at least.” Her mouth twisted unpleasantly and her eyes flickered from Imelda to Héctor and back again. “Since you’re here, I assume that...that my mother doesn’t have much time left?” 

Héctor nodded and stood up as well. “Your abuelita wanted me to meet you, before I go.”

Victoria crossed her arms in front of her, beginning to frown. “Why did you leave then?” 

Imelda opened her mouth to remind Victoria of her place, but Héctor just stepped forward, over the guitar in its box, and slowly took one of Victoria’s hands where it crossed her body, giving her plenty of time to pull away if she wanted. But she didn’t, and he took her hand in both of his, staring at it like some precious thing. “I had my reasons, but probably none of them good enough,” he whispered. “None that will make as much sense to you as they did to me at the time.” He lifted his eyes to meet hers. “I think mostly it was to avoid the fact that I knew I would come to love you all, and the idea of it was very frightening to me, knowing I am close to the final death. I didn’t want to lose anymore than I already would.” He smiled painfully and patted her hand. “That was why I left. I guess it sounds simple when I put it like that, eh?” 

He went to pull his hands back, but Victoria tightened her grip at the last second and prevented him from stepping away.

“And then why did you come back?” 

Héctor glanced over at Imelda and then back to Victoria. “Part of it was because your abuelita asked me to.” 

“Part of it?” 

Héctor shrugged both shoulders and studied the ceiling. “Maybe I wanted to play some music for my granddaughter. Be a proper abuelo, if only for a night.” His airy voice didn’t fool Victoria as much as it didn’t fool Imelda.  

“I’m not my mamá,” she said quietly. “Please don’t see her when you look at me.” 

Héctor actually laughed at that, and then leaned over to kiss her hand before letting go. “I could never do that. Coco is my daughter, but you are my granddaughter, and I’m very quickly beginning to realize that there’s no way I could see you as the same.” He turned to Imelda with brow quirked. “Sleep?” 

“Sleep,” Imelda agreed, and led the way from the workshop. She heard Héctor rushing to keep up. Just as they were both about to leave the workshop, Victoria stopped them once more. 

“I see the shoes fit!”

Héctor paused, and then danced a little across the floor. “Rivera made, after all!” 

Victoria smiled, hid that smile behind her hand, and then said, “Goodnight, Abuelo.” 

Imelda practically had to drag Héctor after her. “Abuelo! She called me Abuelo!” Héctor hissed excitedly. 

“Yes, I heard, I heard!” Through the hallway, up the stairs, and through the doorway into her bed. It was a struggle to get him to follow her the entire way. But finally Imelda was able to shut the door and place Héctor on the bed, where he sat, grinning like mad. He snapped out of it when Imelda stole away his hat. 

“I was wearing that!” 

“Well, if you think you’re wearing it to bed, you’re very much mistaken. Shoes off too! And the vest. And handkerchief.” 

Héctor made a scoffing sound but took off each offending item just the same until he was standing there with just his trousers. Imelda looked him up and down and nodded. “Passable.” She opened the door to her wardrobe and used it as a shield as she undressed and pulled her nightgown on over her head. She shut the door and wandered over to the bed while she fussed over taking off her necklace and earrings. “You can lay down, you know.” 

Héctor stared down at the bed like it was bound to be trapped. 

“What is it?” Imelda finished taking off her jewelry and placed it on the nightstand. She threw back the blankets and toed off her shoes before sliding into bed. 

Héctor chewed on his bottom lip and she heard the unmistakable sound of him shuffling his feet. “It’s just a bit different when it’s a bed, alright?” 

Imelda sat there, propped up against the headboards, and watched him fidget. Finally, she hugged her knees up to her chest and rested her cheek upon them. “Do you remember our wedding night?” 

Héctor paused, and then threw a hand over his eyes, drama dripping from every lamented word. “Aye, Imelda, are you trying to make me even  _ more _ nervous?” 

Imelda turned to hide her smile in the blankets. “If you were able to get into bed with me that night, then now should be no trouble.” 

There was a long pause as he lifted his hand from his eyes, finger by finger, and then turned to look at her, clearly unimpressed. “I hate it when you use logic on me.” 

Imelda smiled her sweetest smile and patted the empty space in the bed next to her. Grumbling a little bit, Héctor lifted the blankets and hopped up onto the bed. He fluffed the pillow and smoothed the sheets and coughed into his elbow. Then he turned to Imelda, cocked his head to one side, and asked, “What now?” 

Imelda let go of her knees and slowly laid down, one arm folded beneath her head on the pillow as she turned to face his direction. “We sleep.” 

Héctor just continued to stare at her, looking increasingly troubled. “What is it?” Imelda eventually asked and he shook his head as if to clear it of cobwebs. 

“Nothing, I just...never thought I’d have the chance to share a bed with you again.” He quirked his mouth up in a half-smile, and then asked softly, “Can I hold you?”

“Do you need to ask?”

“I know your accuracy with a shoe, mi amor.” 

She scoffed. “My shoes are over there.” 

“I’m a cautious man.” 

That was such a bold-faced lie that she laughed, but when  she rolled over to face him, he suddenly looked very fragile with an even more fragile smile, curled under the blankets with his head on her pillow.  Imelda’s bones moved on their own with no intervention from her head at all. She pulled the blankets with her and curled up at Héctor’s side, tucking the blankets all around him before wrapping her arms around him and bearing him down into the mattress, meeting no resistance. She hugged him to her breast, just like she used to when they were alive, and held him tight as she felt his arm slowly and carefully fall across her waist and pull them a little closer. 

“Alright?” she asked after a moment. 

“Alright,” Héctor agreed, and lifted his head to leave a simple kiss on her collarbone before burrowing back into her chest, half hidden by the blankets. Imelda smiled and began to run her fingers through his hair. 

“I liked that song you played for Victoria.” 

Héctor made a muffled sound of complaint, but emerged from beneath the blankets after a moment and settled on his own pillow. “Which one was that?”

It was Imelda’s turn to cough and look around sheepishly before starting to sing, as softly as possible:

 

_ “Amor eterno, e inolvidable _

_ Tarde o temprano estaré contigo _

_ Para seguir amándonos…” _

 

Héctor grinned as her voice trailed off. “Sí, that’s a good one. I wish I’d come up with it myself.” 

Imelda rolled her eyes a little and then let her fingers fiddle with the lace on her nightgown. “Can I ask you something?”

“Usually you don’t bother asking for permission.” 

Imelda sighed and closed her eyes. It would be easier if she couldn’t see his face. “Do you ever sing ‘Remember Me’?” she asked in a whisper. “I know I told you that Coco sang it to herself every night, but you never told me about you.” She frowned a little, eyes still closed, trying to remember. “Well, I know that you hated hearing everyone else singing it because of Ernesto, but just for Coco, did you ever…?”

His fingers brushed gentle against her cheek, prompting her to open her eyes. His expression was distant, a little bit sad, but not angry. “Every night, when I first got here. I thought that maybe...maybe she could still tell I was thinking of her, that I love her. But then...then you know how things went. So I stopped singing it out loud, a long time ago. Except on some...special occasions, I guess.” 

If she didn’t know him so well, the words might have slipped past her. “Out loud?” 

Héctor bit at his bottom lip and shrugged a shoulder. “I might sing it in my head. Occasionally.” 

“Occasionally?” 

“Well, when I say occasionally I might mean most nights…” 

Ridiculous. Imelda leaned over to kiss him—she was quickly getting used to the whole feel of bone on bone—and then rested their foreheads together. “I think you should play it again.” 

He shot her a doubting look. 

“No, I mean it. I think you need to sing Coco’s song for her, at least one more time before you’re gone. So we can all hear, and know, and pass it on to her.” He didn’t reply, just sighed heavily. Imelda kissed him again and retreated back to her own side of the bed. “Think about it, at least.” Finally, Héctor nodded, and there were no more words to be said. Imelda opened her arms to him once more and they fell asleep in a tangle of limbs. And, if when they woke up, Héctor grumbled for just a few more minutes while Imelda kissed his face over and over just how she used to? Well, they could be allowed a little bit of youthfulness, safe in their bed where no eyes were watching. For the mornings they had left. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and for being so patient while this story was on hold~  
> I promise that I am working hard to write the best ending I can, so I hope you all enjoy it!


End file.
